Desperate Measures
by OhSoDeadly
Summary: The war has been over for nearly a year, but the Covenant are still a threat, humanity and the Sangheili find themselves beleaguered to keep the peace, and dangerous secrets infest everything they do. In order to stand a chance of turning the tide, a prototype squad comprised of the best soldiers both races have to offer is put into action.
1. Chapter 1

**Desperate Times-A Post-Halo 3 Fanfic**

***Prologue**

**11th**** of October, 2553**

**UNSCDF HighCom, Russia**

**Earth**

**The frigid wind whipped across the frozen plain. The sun was a veiled disc in the sky. Standing atop the duracrete-and-metal watch tower, Private Horatio Zerba squinted at the distant eastern horizon. Clouds, grey as the tower they stood upon, crowded the aforementioned horizon, making it a blurred line. From the pouch at his belt, he withdrew a powerful monocular. **_**More of the split-chins new-fangled technology. Sticks in my gut, using it. **_**Placing it to his right eye, he sighted along the horizon. Nothing in the middle of nowhere.**

**Horatio sighed, the sound barely audible over the sound of the howling wind. This damn winter was choking the life from this land. The by-product of something the UNSC hadn't foreseen. The Elites' partial glassing of Voi months ago had triggered a climate change in-of all places-Russia. As a result, everything was frozen.**

_**Well, I'll admit we needed their help at the time. But now? The bastards have been squatting on their homeworld, while things fall to pieces here. The Sarge isn't interested in my opinions, but fuck me…**_

**Horatio didn't care that the Elites had helped them defeat the Covenant, or to stop the Flood infection. The bastards had burned Madrigal to cinders, along with his family and friends. Hell, the only reason he'd signed up was to kill Elites. Now they were allied with them.**

**A month ago, a Sangheili corvette had arrived with a message. The Arbiter and the Shipmaster had finished whatever they had been doing on their planet. A delegation was on its way, to thrash things out with the top brass. They were expected on this day.**

**Since the old HighCom building was in ruins, a new one was commissioned. The best engineers in the military were hauled off all their duty posts to construct this place. So far they had managed to get the main building, air pad and outer defenses done. Anything else was hoping for just too much. Even the squad's saboteur, Private Xavier, had been pressed into service.**

_**Now that's a joke. Unless it comes to explosives, Xav's bloody clueless. And why Lord Hood pulled our squad all the way from Micronesia is beyond me. So we're all veterans-big deal.**_

**A clank behind him. Horatio turned, to see the his squad's corporal and point man, Len, pulling himself up the ladder. A sardonic guy, Len never missed an opportunity to get one over his teammates. But he was a loyal member of the squad, and had saved everyone's ass on more than one occasion.**

**Len's breath plumed in the cold air as he faced the east. Scratching a razor-cut sideburn, he said, "Having fun?"**

**Horatio's expression soured through his ski mask. "You tell me, Len. I've been stuck up here for six hours freezing my nuts off while you and the rest are sitting around in the barracks jacking off."**

"**Takes one to know one, douchebag."**

**Horatio grunted a laugh and gave Len a playful shove. After a few moments the pair returned to their contemplation of the icy wastes. Eventually, Horatio asked, "So, any idea what Hood and the rest are up to?"**

**Len shook his head. "Nup. Cloak and dagger stuff with ONI, I'd imagine."**

**Horatio exhaled noisily. "Well, at least when this is over, we can head out of this one big cryo bay. Back to where it's warm."**

"**Wouldn't be too sure about that, if I were you."**

**Horatio faced him. "So you do know something!"**

**Len grinned and tapped the side of his nose. "Trade secret, buddy of mine. You'll just have to wait your turn."**

"**Screw you, "said Horatio irritably.**

**Len cackled and made his way over to the ladder. "That's "screw you Corporal" to you, Private…"**

**Horatio returned his attention to the east, only to see a purplish glow through the iron-coloured clouds. The thrum of an anti-gravity generator could be heard. Horatio stared in awe as the massive bulk of the feared Sangheili flagship, **_**Shadow of Intent**_**, dropped through the sky towards the ground. The rumble of its engines shook the tower on which Horatio was standing. Grabbing a nearby beam for support, he watched as the colossal ship settled into a steady hovering position. From its hangar bay doors, he saw a Spirit dropship emerge and fly towards the complex.**

_**They decided to finally show up.**_** Horatio ran over to the ladder and hastily made his way to the ground. Running over to the field where the barracks was situated, he got to the doors of the squat, hastily erected building and flung them open.**

**Inside was one big room. Steel cots, most of them unoccupied, were positioned along each wall. A few heating units had been attached to the roof, with tangles of multicolored cables hanging off them like a carpet of vines. The few soldiers that were here lay around, staring at the ceiling or cleaning their weapons. Horatio found his squad down the far end.**

**Apart from himself and Len, there were four others in his squad-Terry, Ollie, Xavier and their sergeant, Kyle. Terry was the official stealth and scouting man-the guy could find a way to disappear in the middle of a bare plain, and when they had fought the Covenant, they had learned the hard way. No less than fifteen Brutes had died at his hands.**

**Ollie was the tech specialist. A former cryptology expert, he had joined the Marines because his skills were so vital to the war effort. He was as good as any AI, and was handy with the SMG, his weapon of choice.**

**Xavier wasn't present, but had a near-magical ability when it came to ordnance. His greatest achievement, as he so often boasted, was setting off ten kilograms of C-12 on a Covenant power plant on Jericho VII and eliminating an entire battalion of Hunters. Not the brightest guy, but brains weren't a huge requirement in his occupation. He was close friends with Terry, whom he'd known from childhood.**

**Last was Kyle. Grizzled and gruff, he nonetheless had a steadfast devotion to his men. A former company commander, he had been busted down early in the war when he'd removed a general from his command in order to save the lives of a platoon of marines who were pinned down by Covenant air assault. Several other officers had vouched for him, but to no avail. Still, he looked after his men.**

_**So we have experts in just about every field. And where do I fit in? No, Horatio, don't think that way.**_** Clearing his throat, Horatio said, "Sarge, the Elites' cruiser has just arrived. Delegates are on their way."**

**Kyle grunted. "About time. Alright, ladies, grab your gear. We have an appointment with some aliens." Shouldering his battle rifle, he rose and headed for the door. His men followed him.**

**Other people had been alerted-at the makeshift airfield, landing lights were being activated by technicians, halogen beams lancing into the air. A large red X painted the landing site. The Spirit dropship hovered overhead, its blue stasis field rippling between the "prongs". **

**Len was waiting for them, standing off to one side. As Kyle and the rest arrived, he remarked, "We might want to step back, Sarge. It's gonna need more room."**

**The squad collectively stepped back, as the troop ship made its landing. The engines hum faded away. The side doors of the aircraft opened.**

**Out stepped eight Elites-three were garbed in golden armour, a sign of high rank-they were most likely Shipmasters or Field Masters. Three others were SpecOps soldiers, their matte black combat harnesses glistening.**

**The other two were the Arbiter and R'tas Vadum, the chief Shipmaster.**

**Horatio had only seen the Arbiter once, during combat in Voi and from a distance. Yet from what little he could recall of his appearance, little had changed. Amber eyes glinted through the eye-holes in his armour, filled with anticipation. He still wore the same armour-it was covered in dents, stains and scratches. Evidently he had been in fighting recently. **_**When he could have been helping us.**_

**R'tas Vadum, however, had changed his armour. It was a burnished orange, with white trimming. Atop his triangular head, he wore a silver headdress. Unlike the Arbiter, who was unarmed, he carried an energy sword at his side. The golden Elites were similarly armed. They were still wary of the unexpected, it seemed.**

**From behind Horatio, a procession was approaching. At its head was Lord Hood. Age was taking its toll on him, but he retained his old vigor, with a sharp gleam in his eyes. He was dressed in his old Navy dress uniform. His retinue consisted of the Marine generals and Navy captains that remained.**

**Hood strode up to the Elites. He withdrew a hand. "Arbiter, Shipmaster. Welcome back to Earth. Good to have you. I trust you're well."**

**Arbiter shook the hand firmly. "Well met, Lord Hood. Forgive our lack of assistance in relief efforts, we have been busy policing Sangheilios and the surrounding systems from Jiralhanae incursions. Know now that we will send regular aid."**

**Lord Hood nodded, pleased. "That's good to hear. Shipmaster, how have things been on the home front? Have our reinforcements been of use?"**

**R'tas' slitted eyes went to Hood's face. "Manageable. The Jiralhanae are like the L'upe cattle of our world-simpleminded and lacking initiative. Without their Prophets, they are no significant threat. In truth, your ships are not needed. Feel free to keep them where they are needed. That will change, however, when he strike deeper into their territories."**

**Hood nodded a second time. "Well, we can discuss all that and more in due time. Follow me to the main building." Hood turned and walked towards the huge structure that was the main building of HighCom. The respective retinues followed him.**

**Horatio couldn't help but show open hostility as the Elites passed by. One of the SpecOps Elites half-turned to him as he passed. Horatio stared straight back at the Elite. A few moments passed, then the Elite's mandibles broke apart in a wide grin. "Until later, human." The Elite ambled off.**

**Horatio turned to his squadmates, all of whom were grinning. "What's so funny?" he demanded. **

**Ollie snorted his laughter. "Dude, you shat your pants when that alien looked you over. You should have seen your face."**

"**Oh, I don't think he was scared, " Len chimed in.**

**Horatio grunted. "Thanks Len…."**

"**I'd say he was in love."**

**Horatio thumped Len on the shoulder. "Shut up man."**

**Len continued unabated. "Saw something you liked, eh Hor? Thinking of asking him out? Heard the Caribbean's pretty good this time of year…"**

"**I told you, shut up!"**

'**Enough, " growled Kyle. "This ain't a mother's group. Terry, it's your shift on the watchtower. Grab some rations and haul ass."**

"**Aw, Sarge…"**

"**That's an order, Private!" Kyle's voice could cow a lion into submission when he got ticked off.**

**Terry grumbled sullenly. "Don't see what the point is, the Elites have arrived, what the hell am I up there for?"**

"**I swear to God, Terry, you don't shut your yap I'll shove a plasma grenade down it. Go."**

**Still grumbling, Terry slunk off.**

**Kyle turned to the others. 'Rest of you get some sleep. We'll be moving out at dawn."**

"**What for?" Len asked.**

"**None of your business, corporal." The sergeant stalked off towards the main building.**

**Ollie and Len headed off to the barracks. Horatio followed them, but his mind was not on the subject of getting rest. The Elites were in discussions regarding peacekeeping. So far, expeditions to retake Covenant-held worlds had been in theory only. Yet now, something was definitely going on.**

**The Elite's comment worried him. Just how closely were the humans and Elites going to be working together?**

_**No idea, but I can tell the answer ain't gonna be good.**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Desperate Times-A Post-Halo 3 Fanfic**

***Chapter One**

**13th**** of October, 2553**

**UNSCDF HighCom, Russia**

**Earth**

"**So it is agreed-our joined fleets will begin incursions as soon as they have been outfitted-a month, you said? Excellent."**

**Lord Hood nodded. "As soon as these discussions conclude, a battle group will follow **_**Shadow of Intent**_** back to the frontier. A quartet of ONI Prowlers will be with them, to help in reconnaissance efforts."**

"**Your contribution of troops, however, leaves much to be desired."**

**Hood rubbed his eyes and ran a hand along his shaven head. Facing R'tas Vadumee, who sat across from him, he said, "I will concede that point, Shipmaster. But our new orbital platforms will require a massive amount of labour and manpower. Manpower we can't spare on the frontier. We must attend to our situation at home first. Surely you understand that."**

**R'tas nodded. "Only too well. But our warrior crèches are sorely pressed. We always achieve victory in naval combat-but the Jiralhanae have demonic ferocity on the ground. Coalitions of Loyalist Unggoy and Lekgolo have recently joined their ranks. Outpost worlds Virtue, Hanlbu and Poldun have fallen." Beside him, the Arbiter sat silently. He had said nothing during the whole meeting. Hood suspected that wasn't about to change.**

"**I wasn't aware of that, "murmured Admiral Dinnigan, Hood's second-in-command. A recent promotion, Dinnigan had a level head nonetheless, and had no qualms about the alliance, treating the Elites with respect.**

**R'tas sighed, a long, rumbling sound. "It is so. Orbital bombardment is out of the question-we will not repeat our senseless destruction once again. More worlds turned to lead and ash. The Sangheili will not countenance this. Also, we have not the time. Every day more Jiralhanae insurgents infest more systems like maggots inside a corpse. This punitive campaign must be waged quickly. "**

**Hood tilted his head in acknowledgement. "I understand this, Shipmaster. But it seems we will agree to disagree. I suggest a compromise."**

**R'tas stared at him. "What ideas do you have?"**

**Hood smiled, and gestured to the Marine commanders arrayed at his side. "For starters, these men will liaise with your Field Masters. The situation, as I understand it, is that we lack self-contained combat units, ready for any contingency. Accordingly, we are both suffering on the ground-"**

**One of the Elite Field Masters, clad in armour the colour of argent flames, snorted, the noise echoing throughout the small room. "What would you know of combat on the ground, human? We Sangheili have fought this war, while you and your mewling citizens cower on this cramped sewer you call a homeworld. You have sent none of your armies-"**

**R'tas' fists tightened into balls. "Urit Gebur', you speak like a blind elder with the poison tongue. I am tempted to reach across the table and choke the smirk from your face." His right hand loosened and fingers drummed on the hilt of his energy sword suggestively.**

**A moment's awkward silence, then the Elite Urit Gebur' grunted his assent and ducked his head. His fellow zealots scowled at him.**

**Hood cleared his throat, re-shuffling the papers on the table. "As I was saying, we have suffered as a result. So what I propose is a conjoining of our forces."**

**R'tas cocked his massive head. "That has already been done. Our Seraph fighters fly alongside your Longswords in battle, and your Marines fight with Sangheili warriors to guard their backs."**

**Hood nodded. "Yes, but they have always been opportunistic. UNSC forces and your forces have never deployed themselves with mingled forces. We both possess certain advantages in battle-why not combine them? To foster trust, camaraderie and most important of all, forge a lethal fighting force, capable of defeating the Brutes."**

**It was a convincing argument, and Hood saw many commanders on both sides nodding their heads. R'tas, however, looked hesitant. After a while, he tilted his head. "An interesting idea. But before we execute it on the fields of war, it must be tested. On these frozen plains."**

**Hood smiled. "Certainly. I can see you've brought some of your best." He nodded at the black-armored Elites seated on the left of R'tas. "And I pulled some of our best all the way from Micronesia. We can begin planning an operation whenever you are ready."**

**R'tas hummed doubtfully. "Those marines we saw at the landing zone? A motley array. I did not see much in them to suggest efficacy."**

**Hood smiled a second time. "Oh trust me when I say, Shipmaster, that they are the best."**

* * *

**Xavier cursed in his native Japanese as the flare's solvent ignited, setting his clothes alight. He attempted to throw snow onto his khaki vest, but to no avail. Shrieking, he rolled back and forth. No-one in his squad helped him, as they were laughing too much. When it was clear that Xavier couldn't extinguish the flames himself, Horatio sighed, pushed himself off the wall he was lounging against and grabbed the nitrogen foam canister bolted on the wall. Aiming it at Xavier, he pressed the button.**

**Xavier's screams stopped, but then he was being buried in icy foam. When he tried to shout at Horatio to stop, he got a mouthful of foam instead.**

**Len nudged Ollie. "Not his favourite flavour, I take it." Ollie snorted with laughter.**

**By this time, Xavier had managed to spit out the foam. "Alright, alright, stop, I'm drowning!" Grinning, Horatio let go of the trigger. **

**Kyle shot Horatio a glare. "Now Xav won't shut up for the next two days. Congratulations, dumbass."**

**Xavier was indeed a compulsive whiner and a pessimist-as soon as he had finished scraping off the snow, his tirade began. "Thanks a lot for the help, assholes. Look at this-I'm gonna get hypothermia 'cause of you, Horatio. Haven't you noticed how damn cold it is? I swear to God-"**

**Kyle tore off his helmet and threw it at Xavier, missing his head by scant inches. "Your own damn fault in the first place, Private. Stop messing about with your chemistry set and check your equipment." Chagrined, Xavier removed his M6C/SOCOM pistol and started cleaning it with a rag.**

**Horatio put the canister back in its slot, questions crowding on his tongue. Why were they here? What was their role in this whole mess with the Elites? And why were they checking their gear?**

**The squad was sitting just outside the barracks. **_**Why we're sitting out here in the cold is yet another question I've got.**_** Sarge had been acting really tense ever since the Elites got here-checking his own equipment, and spending regular hours at the makeshift firing range. All of this was sending alarm bells through his head. He had to know.**

**Horatio turned to Kyle and was just about to ask him what this was all about when he spotted a lone figure approaching them. It was Lord Hood.**

"**Atten-shun!" Kyle barked as Lord Hood walked over to them. The entire squad snapped to attention.**

**Hood smiled and waved a hand magnanimously. "At ease, men." He beckoned Kyle. "Sergeant, walk with me." The Sarge nodded and the pair went off a little ways to talk.**

**Horatio exhaled, a worried frown creasing his brow. "Don't like this, guys. Something's going on."**

"**Well no shit, "said Terry sarcastically. "But cool it, man. It's not like Hood's sending us on a suicide mission."**

'**Wouldn't be so sure, "muttered Len. Everyone immediately turned to him.**

**Ollie prodded him with a finger. "Alright, out with it. Ever since the Elite's got here you've been walking around with a swagger as big as that cruiser up there-and now this! Spill, Len."**

**Len smiled. "Where's your clearance, Private?" When he saw Ollie's face going red, he held up a hand. "OK, OK, calm down. I'll tell you what I know." He laced his fingers together and began talking.**

"**Command's worried 'bout the lack of experienced troops out there. Could threaten the whole alliance, seeing as we don't have all that many to spare anyway. Elites won't stand for empty promises. So…we're gonna mix and match."**

**Horatio's hackles rose. "Whaddaya mean, "mix and match"?"**

**Len shrugged. "ODSTs are too few to do much real hurtin' on their own. And we sure as hell can't send regular leathernecks on hot-drops. So-that leaves the Elites. And whatever we got left." He clasped his gloved hands together, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Smell the coffee now?"**

**Horatio couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What?! You mean we gotta mingle with the split-chins in combat? No way."**

**Len shrugged again. "Whatever dude. But you may as well face it. We need each other in this war. Besides, this sorta thing's already being done. What we're doing is just a little more involved."**

"**Bullshit, " Horatio said harshly. He shook his head. "I'm not working with the shit-sucking bastards who glassed Madrigal, not now, not ever-"**

"**Men."**

**Horatio spun around to see The Sarge and Hood standing in front of them. Cursing his loud voice, he quickly and cleanly saluted. **

**Hood cleared his throat. "Men, what I'm about to tell you will be fairly momentous, so at ease." The squad all sat down, looking up at Hood like schoolchildren at a teacher.**

"**I've reviewed all of your profiles-and you're all veterans. Men like you are desperately needed in this war. Now, you've probably been wondering why I chose your squad, out of all the others. Time's come to tell you why.**

"**Two problems have stood out, more than any others, so far in the war. One-a lack of experienced combat teams. We just don't have the manpower. Two-the increasing amount of incidents involving Marines and Elites. If this continues, the alliance could potentially fall apart. Thus, we need to kill two birds with one stone. I have an idea to do that. But it needs testing. And not by run-of-the-mill Marines. Nor can the same be said for the Elites. That's where you come in."**

**Hood paused for effect-and got it. The squad was hanging on his every word.**

"**As you've probably noticed, the Elite's brought a combat team of their own. They are, as of now, your new teammates. Your squad has been combined with theirs. Get to know them-they may be Elites but they're fellow soldiers. Tomorrow at 0630, you will all participate in a combat exercise. I'm aware of all of your respective fields-and we've designed this exercise to suit them. The Elites are also experts in certain fields, so expect them to handle themselves."**

**Hood cast his gaze over each soldier in turn. "Some of you may still have prejudices towards the Elites. I'm asking that, for the sake of the alliance and the war, you put them aside. The Elites have accepted us as allies, and that's good enough for me. It should be the same for you. I'm aware this may not work, but I will not have the reason be that you didn't play nice. I'm counting on you all. Good luck." Hood nodded to Kyle, then trudged back towards the main building, flurries of snow marking each footstep.**

**Kyle eyed his men sternly. "You heard the man. Get prepped for a combat mission. I want you all locked, loaded and wired tight. Ollie, get your tech together-I want viral scavengers, long-range sensors-the lot. Xavier, if I don't see at least five Antilon mines in a few minutes I will force-feed you a HAVOK warhead. Terry, find some camouflage and find it now. Len, do whatever it is the hell you do, and see me later. Horatio, you see me later as well-the armoury, at 2130. Snap to it!"**

**The squad, hardened by years of fighting, did what they had done so many times before-got ready to kick some ass.**

_**Several hours later**_

**Horatio knocked on the door of the armory, and the massive stainless-steel door slid open. The scarred face of Kyle greeted him. "Private, come in. Got some news for you."**

**They walked down the long, dimly lit corridors in silence. In racks that reached up all the way to the ceiling, there were guns, bombs, and other equipment-all the paraphernalia of war.**

"**You know, "Kyle said slowly, "I never really had a vital use for you in the squad. That's not to say you haven't been a good soldier, but still. You've probably noticed, I 'spect." Horatio nodded, despite himself.**

"**But that's changed as of today." Kyle turned and faced him. "Before you arrived in my squad, I'd lost five other men. Your predecessors. Know why? Those damn Jackals and their beam rifles. We never had anyone that could stick it to 'em. Now, though, I think I've got a solution." A rare smile spread across his features.**

"**You've got a good eye, Horatio. Not to mention good accuracy. That's why I'm giving you…this." From a slot in the wall he pulled out a long metal case and handed it do Horatio. Opening it, he found a pristine, mint-condition SRS99D-S2 AM sniper rifle inside. He looked at Kyle in disbelief.**

**Kyle grinned and nodded. "That's right; you're officially the squad's marksman. Good luck son, and make ever shot a good one."**


	3. Chapter 3

Desperate Times

*Chapter Two

14th of October, 2553

UNSCDF HighCom, Russia

Earth

Horatio was asleep, floating through the black void that was unconsciousness. It was one of the first times he'd experienced dreamless sleep since the war had ended.

_But it hasn't really ended, has it?_ He thought bitterly. He had a surprising capacity for lucid thought when sleeping. _More death. More blood. More stupid fighting with dumb apes that'll probably bomb themselves to bits anyway. I might not show it, but damnit, I'm sick of fighting. _

This turn of mood swung his sleep into a darker place. Now here came the images he knew so well.

…_back on Madrigal as a child, scrambling through the burning ruins as Covenant aircraft screamed through the sky. Screaming himself as Elites, roaring with laughter, cut his mother down with their terrible swords…_

…_watching Madrigal burn from a refugee ship's screens, as alien ships, sleek and purple, rained apocalyptic fire down on his beloved homeworld. Swearing revenge on the aliens as tears of rage and pain blurred his eyes…_

…_his assault rifle juddering in his hands as he fired on the fleeing remnants of a Grunt platoon, in the battle of Jericho VII. Feeling cold satisfaction as he stood over their cooling corpses…_

…_watching as Spartans, titan-like and clad in emerald armour, moved with superior speed and effortlessly dispatched hordes of the enemy. How they inspired and gave hope to the marines in the field…_

…_seeing Reach, the stronghold of UNSC might, being destroyed by the huge Covenant fleet. Seeing the home fleet shot to pieces, the thousands of brave men and women aboard dying, the Spartans themselves being incinerated by plasma bombardment. Being on one of the handful of ships to limp away from the battle…_

…_fighting in the twisting streets of New Mombassa, back on Earth. Pushing forward into the city centre, seeing whole platoons being annihilated by the Scarab. Escaping on a Pelican out of the city, just escaping the actinic-white sphere of energy that enveloped the city after the cruiser jumped…_

…_fighting the horrific Flood parasite, after The Prophet of Truth activated the Forerunner artifact. Emptying clip after clip into the onrushing, zombified hordes, pissing himself in terror. Seeing fellow marines whom he'd fought with before infected by the Flood, being transformed into hideous, mutated combat forms…_

…_standing on the hillside next to the Ark Portal, as the sunset bathed it in gilden sunshine. Firing the twenty-one gun salute, his entire squad beside him, as they honored the fallen, and the one man who'd made a difference-the Master Chief, Spartan-117._

Then the dream changed again…

_He stood on a wide, grassy plain. The sky was milky white rather than blue. The air was close and unbearably hot. On the right, a small stream ran by, the waters glistening. He walked towards it. _

_Two blurred shadows moved to intercept him. He shouted in shock._

_He was struck to the ground by incredible strength. Pain swept through him. Blinking unsteadily, he looked upward._

_A pair of faces, blazing white, peered back at him. He could barely make out their features._

_Then they spoke._

"_A soldier."_

"_A killer."_

_They raised their hands again-_

Someone kicked him in the side. Grunting in pain, he rubbed his thigh. Len's grinning face gazed at him. "Rise and shine, buddy. It's 0600. Get off your ass. You got ten minutes to get it together." He moved off to kick awake another member of the squad.

Swearing under his breath, Horatio sat up on his marine-issue cot. Sweeping his legs off, he grabbed his kit and started getting dressed in his white-grey fatigues, given to them yesterday as a substitute for their usual khaki clothes. He pulled on his gloves and then did the same with his helmet, the neck seal closing with a quiet _snik._ When he had finished with that, he grabbed the case underneath his bed.

His eyes glowed as he once again inspected his newest possession. It was sleek and slim lined-the long barrel was already scuffed-looking, as if it had been in combat itself. Plucking one of the four-bullet magazines from the case, he inserted it into its slot and pulled the charging handle. He'd never had a sniper rifle of his very own-he was already looking forward to trying it out. He collected the rest of the ammo and put them into the ammunition belt tied around his waist.

Shouldering the weapon, he grabbed the rest of his equipment-helmet, pistol and combat knife. "Ready to go, 'he announced. In a few minutes the rest of the squad was also prepared. It was at that moment that Sergeant Kyle walked in.

The old veteran was dressed in black combat armour-his old ODST suit, or so it was said. He'd opted to carry his battle rifle, along with-somewhat incongruously-a plasma rifle as a sidearm. Scowling at what Kyle could only guess, he surveyed his squad. "Ready? You better be, or I'll have your asses in a sling. Right, we're taking a dropship to the combat mission zone. They're firing up the jets now, so let's go. Make sure you got everything. Oh, and the Elites are outside-make the meet-and-greet quickly, if you please."

Horatio's head snapped around at that. He had completely forgotten about the Elites. And now he was about to meet them. Steeling himself, he followed the squad outside.

The foul weather they'd had had slackened off since dawn, and the sky was now clear, a blank blue. The sunlight was still weak, however. A steady breeze could be felt coming in from the north. Exiting the barracks field, they approached the landing zone. A Pelican dropship was sitting on the pad, strobe-lights flaring. The hatch was open, and standing next to it was Lord Hood, the Arbiter and the Elite team.

The three aliens were all tall and in black armour, but the similarities ended there. The first was the broadest of the lot, with shoulders as wide as Horatio's sniper rifle's barrel was long. Shark-like eyes glittered through the slits in his helmet, filled with an eagerness that Horatio found oddly disturbing. He stiffened as he realised this alien was the one with whom he'd conversed. He carried a carbine and a plasma pistol.

The middle was the clear leader, the tallest of the three; he'd added golden stripes to his chest plate, and a strange pair of gauntlets that he'd never seen before. He held a needler and an energy sword hilt was visible at his hip. His pose was one of complete, unchallenged dominance.

The last Elite was gangly, with a strangely disproportionate body; underdeveloped arms but enormous legs. He may have seemed weak compared to his comrades, but the look in his eyes suggested a will not easily pushed aside. He had a formidable fuel rod gun over one shoulder, and-incredibly-a spike rifle.

It couldn't be put off any longer; the squad made it to the Pelican. Hood looked over them approvingly, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Sharp as ever, I see. How's the squad?"

"Green, sir."

"Excellent. Arbiter?"

The leader of the Elites stepped forward, his voice a bass rumble. "Soldiers, allow me to introduce the Third Lance of the Kalkoro Legion. On the left stands Dasa Virot', heavy armaments specialist." He indicated the broad-shouldered Elite. "In the middle stands the leader, Gerun Nefur'." The Elite with the needler. "And finally, the marksman, Lazu Urdoq." The Elite with the fuel rod gun.

_So. Dasa, Gerun and Lazu. Whoop-tee-doo. _Horatio glared unabashedly at them. Part of him knew it was irrational to hate them on sight-they weren't the ones who'd glassed Madrigal. And they hadn't done anything to him. Still, he refused to acknowledge that feeling.

Kyle cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Good to have you, warriors." Evidently the Sarge had been brushing up on his old-fashioned lingo. "Allow _me_ to introduce my squad. They're the finest soldiers anywhere; razor sharp and deadly."

_Did Sarge just compliment us? The last time he did anything like that was when Terry saved him from those Grunts in Jelba City on Paris IV. And as soon as that was done, he annihilated him for not keeping the safety on his rifle. Wow._

"This is my corporal, Len." The soldier in question stepped forward, a mocking smile on his face-his usual expression, in other words. "Nice to meet you. So, Gigantor, 'he said conversationally to the biggest Elite, "how often do you hit the gym?"

Kyle snarled and slugged him in the side of the head. It caused the corporal to stumble. "Shut your mouth, Len, unless you got something civil to say. Don't mind him, Dasa (Horatio noted the use of the Elite's first name), he has no social skills."

Dasa chuckled. It was a scary sound. "No need, Sergeant. I've met his like before-they are a great asset in times of war." Len winked at him. The huge Elite winked back.

It broke the ice; the Arbiter burst out laughing. "Would that Sergeant Johnson was here now. I wager he would have set Corporal Len straight." Hood shook his head, grinning.

Kyle grunted, obviously undecided. "Right. Anyway, this is Terry, our stealth expert. Ollie, tech specialist. Xavier, demolition man. And finally, Horatio, marksman."

Lazu leaned forward, head cocked inquisitively. "A fellow sharpshooter? We shall be working close together, you and I. Well met…Horatio. Again."

Hood turned to the Marine and frowned. "You've already met?"

Horatio nodded grudgingly. "Yeah, we have. It was a pretty short meeting, though."

The Elite kept a straight face, but his eyes were filled with mirth. "Indeed it was. But rest assured we can resume it at any time." He stepped back.

The "meet-and-greet" as Kyle put it, concluded. "Alright ladies, get aboard that bird. Strap in and check the gear-I won't stand for slip-ups on this mission. Move, move, move!" Kyle's voice sounded like a drum. The squad immediately formed up and clambered onto the Pelican.

Gerun snapped out his own orders. "Sheath your weapons, warriors. Ensure all of your equipment is sound. Dasa, have you blessed our mission in the name of the Gods?" As well as the heavy weapons man, Dasa doubled as the Lance's chaplain.

"I have, war leader. Blood of my ancestors was spilt onto the black rock on the dropship to curry their favour and guidance."

"Well done, warrior. May our swords stay sharp."

"And so may we better find victory."

"Fight with blade, weapon and fist-guard the lives of your companions."

The ritual was completed. The three Elites bowed to one another, and entered the darkened recesses of the Pelican. The hatch closed, the engines roared, and the aircraft climbed into the sky.

Horatio settled himself in, clipping himself into the leather harness. The red light bathed the troop bay in a crimson glow. With a surge of annoyance he saw Lazu seating himself next to him. The metal seat creaked as the Elite placed his massive bulk onto it. He reached up with his long, spindly fingers and strapped himself in. "Good hunting this day, human."

Horatio grunted in a non-committal way. He wasn't ready to engage his new allies in conversation. This entire op-practice or no-pulled at every fibre of his being. He grabbed his sniper rifle out of its slot behind and above his head and began checking it again. Lazu snorted, and commenced loading his carbine. Horatio looked down the row of seats. Everybody else was locked in and ready.

Kyle's voice echoed through the Pelican. "Everyone's prepped. We hit dirt in about ten minutes. Be ready or else."

Ollie's voice came from the other end of the troop bay. "What's the deal with this op, Sarge? What the hell are we doing anyway?"

"You'll find out, Private, "said Kyle. "'Till then, stow the questions and check your gear."

Ollie sniffed. "Is that all you can say?"

"What was that, Ollie?"

"Uh, nothing', Sarge."

"Good."

Horatio shook his head, smiling. Despite all they'd been through together, the squad still managed to knock sparks off each other.

"Your soldiers are a strange breed."

This comment had come from Lazu; loud enough only for him to hear. Horatio's smile faded, and he turned away from the Elite. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you do. The warriors of our race are proud-each will unfailingly follow orders without question. Yet yours quibble and argue."

"So what, you're saying we're inferior or something?" Horatio snapped.

"Don't be foolish. Your soldiers clearly use their jibing and mockery as a weapon against war. It has made them tenacious. The strength of your marines lies in the unit-and this they know. You are very much like the Sangheili in this regard. It is one of the reasons we allied."

Horatio had never heard so many words used by an Elite, and so forcefully; he still didn't care. "Yeah, well, that's interesting but whatever. You just do your job and I'll do mine."

"My point from the very start."

Suddenly the pilot's voice crackled over the radio. "_We're nearly at the site, Sergeant. Y'all got 'bout five minutes."_

"_Roger that, "_said Kyle over the radio, then clicked it off. He got out of his harness and stood up, facing the squads. "Alright, listen up. The exercise starts as of now. First part-we ain't gonna be landing this bird. We're dropping out, ODST-style." A wicked smile crossed his face.

"What?!" Xavier moaned. "We haven't done something like this in years-"

"Shove a cork in it, Private. As I was saying, we'll be dropping out-with parasails." He glared at Xavier. "You'll be leaving in groups of three-ratio is two humans and one Elite. Elites, you've been instructed on how to use these-but if you need assistance, tell someone. Make sure you're properly kitted out, or you'll be leaving a red smear about seventy metres below." Len laughed-but he was the only one. Kyle continued. "Your parasails are underneath your seats. Put 'em on-and hurry up."

There was a great kerfuffle of limbs and material as everyone reached down for their parasails. Terry yelped as Gerun accidentally elbowed him in the face. "Oi, watch it, you big oaf!"

Gerun bared his teeth and growled. Ollie prudently turned away, strapping on his parasail.

In a few minutes they were all ready. Kyle clicked on the radio. "_Pop the hatch, El-Tee."_

"_Roger, "_came the reply. With a groan the back hatch of the Pelican opened, sending a hissing fusillade of snowflakes into the troop bay. They all shivered in the cold.

"Right, groups are as follows; Xavier, Dasa and Len. You'll jump first. Then me, Gerun and Ollie. Lastly, Horatio, Lazu and Terry. LZ's below-get ready to jump! When we've landed, I'll explain the rest of the mission. Group one, to the edge!"

Gingerly, the first three made their way to the hatch. A fierce wind tore at them.

"Alright, go go go!" Kyle yelled.

The first group jumped out of the dropship, spiralling downwards. Soon, they disappeared from sight.

"Second group, up and at 'em!" Kyle walked over to the hatch, grasping a tangle of wires for support. Moments later Gerun and Ollie joined him.

"Jump!" Kyle bellowed, and they did.

_This is it._ Horatio got up from his seat, followed by Terry and Lazu. The latter touched a hand to his forehead in a gesture of benediction. "Blessings on your journey, Horatio."

Horatio nodded half-heartedly. "Yeah, sure." He leaned back, readying himself to jump.

"Go!" yelled Terry, his voice tinny in the face of the wind. As one, the trio leapt from the troop bay of the Pelican.

Horatio plummeted fast-extremely fast. The descent caused the already loud gale into a screaming monster. His sniper rifle barrel was smacking him in the back of the head. He was deafened. Twisting his head to the left, he saw the frail forms of his teammates. If he listened hard, he could hear Terry alternating between foul curses and wide-eyed prayers. He hadn't hot-dropped in a long time-none of them had. Horatio didn't like the squad's chances so far.

Suddenly the ground was rushing up to meet him-he fumbled frantically for the red handle above his shoulder. He couldn't find it. Panicking, he swept his hand around and accidentally clanged his glove-clad hand on it. He pulled it.

With a ripping noise he was jerked upwards momentarily as the yellow-grey parasail unfurled. His rapid drop slowed, and he took the time to look around. Not far from where he was going to land, he could see a complex of grey buildings-not unlike HighCom. It was surrounded by a barbed wire fence. It was a fairly sizeable place-the whole place encompassed two square miles at least-

With an almost powdery thud he hit the ground, his parasail settling over him like a cloak. It took Horatio a few seconds to realise he'd bitten his tongue-he pulled off his helmet and spat blood, a crimson string splattering the snow. Horatio put his helmet back on, drew his knife, and sliced off the straps biting into his shoulders. Pushing away the chute, he got to his feet.

Ahead about one hundred paces was the eastern fence. Large mounds of snow were located here and there between him and the fence. A massive tower-it looked like an office block-was about fifty paces inward from the fence. The fence itself was wired with motion sensors-green lights flickered like snake eyes. A gate could be seen, made of steel and inset into a concrete gatehouse. Small figures could be seen moving around inside. _What the hell? It's like we're assaulting an enemy fortress. Part of the exercise? This whole thing stinks…_

Horatio chanced a look upwards, and saw Terry and Lazu coming in fast. The pair hit the snow with a _flumph_. Walking over, he helped Terry pull the parasail's chute off. "Rough landing, huh?" His fellow marine grunted his assent sourly, rubbing his arm. On his right, Lazu burst through his own chute, shaking the snow off him like a dog. He was clearly annoyed; he glared about, one hand reaching for his carbine. "A dangerous method of insertion. Methinks only the foolish and the brave would attempt something like this."

Terry laughed shakily. "Don't say that to an ODST, if you meet him. Let's get a move on, guys, rest of the squad's gotta be somewhere." The infiltrator marine unlimbered his assault rifle, pulled back the charging handle and racked a round into the chamber. "Hope we get a chance to turkey shoot today."

Lazu frowned. "What is a turkey shoot?"

Horatio grinned in spite of himself. Privately he was glad his grin couldn't be seen through the helmet. "Means an honest-to-God firefight. We should swing west-I think I saw one of our groups end up there."

A screeching noise came his way. He turned, to see the gate of the complex open, the twin metal plates sliding open. From the inside, two vehicles roared out. They looked like Warthogs, but were slightly different-the bonnet and sides were painted red, there were no "tusks" on the front, the windshield was tinted and on one, instead of the standard M41 LAAG, there was-Horatio squinted-an automatic grenade launcher. Dotted all over the bodies of the vehicles were reinforced steel plates-hastily welded on. All in all, it looked nothing like the usual LRV. Horatio's gorge rose-something was not right.

He looked uneasily at Terry. "Friendlies?"

Terry shook his head. "I'm not sure. There's something familiar about them…"

''Ware!" cried Lazu.

The oddly designed Warthogs were approaching quickly-now, Horatio could see a man standing on the machine gun turret of the first one. An emblem was visible on his chest-a white fist, surrounded by a red circle. Horatio's eyes widened. The turret locked onto them.

As the trio dived for cover, a hail of bullets scoring jagged marks in the snow, the realisation came that whoever these men were, they weren't friendlies; and that something had gone terribly wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

***Chapter Three**

**14th**** of October, 2553**

**Unknown base, Russia**

**Earth**

**The machine-gun turret gave a high-pitched whine as hundreds of rounds kicked up plumes of snow. Deafened, Horatio and his team threw themselves behind a sizeable snowdrift. Terry was, predictably, swearing at the top of his voice. "What the hell is this shit? I thought this was a damn practice mission!"**

"**Obviously ain't, "Horatio growled. He twisted over to face Lazu. "Got anything for those bastards? We got frags, but those 'Hogs are too fast-"**

"**I have plasma grenades, "the Elite replied. He pulled from his waist a loop of cord, with three blue orbs dangling from it. "But my shields will fail in the face of their turrets. You must needs distract them."**

"**We have to what?" Terry asked incredulously. He peered over the top of the snow mound. "Forget it, we'll just wait it out-"**

**A thunderous detonation sent him flying back a few paces. It was the grenade launcher. Terry sat up, the wind knocked out of him. "On the other hand, maybe we should do something. Alright, so you get close and stick 'em. What do we do?"**

**Lazu stood up, flexing his arms. "You must lure them to another place of safety. Then, when they are unsuspecting, I shall strike. Terry, go left. Horatio, over there." He indicated a pair of snow mounds.**

**The alien inched his head around the side of the mound. "They have withdrawn to further away. Now is the time-go!"**

**Horatio was surprised that the order came so quickly-he stumbled, but hastily straightened up and ran like hell.**

**Panting, his breath rising and lowering, he pelted his way to his destination. A screech of tires was heard-the 'Hogs were turning in his direction. Pulling a frag grenade from his belt, he pulled the pin and tossed it in the general direction of the noise. His cover wasn't far off now; fifty paces-**

**The turret 'Hog was suddenly beside him-where had it come from? Its gunner turned to track him, but Horatio had years of experience on his side. He dropped and rolled to the left, and the modified Warthog roared off in the other direction, the gunner too slow to react. He'd bought himself more time. Sprinting, he made it to the mound. Nestling on the covered side, he keyed his radio. "**_**Alright, guys. I'm in position. Any day now."**_

**Terry was in his own fight. A round from the launcher had sent shrapnel flying everywhere. A stray piece had punched through the side of his helmet, leaving a long cut. Blood trickled down. **

**The enemy 'Hog was strafing him, not wishing to become caught in its own blasts. He swore as the launcher zeroed in on him, and fired, a gout of smoke issuing from the barrel. **_**Mother of God!**_** He threw himself flat, waiting to hear the shell that killed him.**

**The explosion assaulted his ears, but he felt nothing. Looking around, he saw-back at the first snowdrift-Lazu, standing on the top, carbine in his rippled arms. **_**He musta fired at the grenade when it was in the air! Christ, he's good! Lucky break. **_**Pushing himself up, he resumed his frantic run. Lazu fired more shots, the radioactive rounds drilling holes through the vehicle's armour. But the Warthog was already coming back in his direction.**

**He half-turned and fired his rifle, but it was like attacking a whale with a stick. Pulling out a frag grenade, he tossed it into the path of the incoming vehicle.**

**The driver had cut it too fine-they couldn't risk a grenade at this range without killing themselves. Panicking, the driver tried to swerve, but too late.**

**The grenade went off with a cacophonous bang, blowing the 'Hog off its wheels and onto its side. The driver had been killed, but the gunner was alive, struggling to free himself. Terry smiled mirthlessly and strode over.**

**The man had almost extricated himself from the wreck when Terry's shadow fell over him. "Boo, "the Marine said flatly, and put a bullet in his skull. **

**The immediate danger over, Terry hurriedly searched the bodies. They were carrying M6K pistols-firearms usually reserved for undercover police. Terry frowned in consternation. **_**You ain't cops. So who the hell are you?**_

**He also found a razor-edged combat knife-which he grabbed-and a short-range radio, which had been broken in the crash. **_**Pity-might be broadcasting right now. Ollie could crack their frequency with our own radios-assuming he's alive right now.**_** His search over, he looked more closely at the insignia on their fatigues.**

**White fist and red circle-it was damned familiar, nagging at the corners of his mind. He shook his head-it didn't matter who they were, they were enemies, and that was that. Terry sprinted over to where Horatio was pinned down by fire from the turret 'Hog. About thirty paces off to his right, Lazu was also running, muscled legs pumping. The alien pulled out a grenade of his own-the plasma kind.**

**Unfortunately it was at that moment that a lull occurred in the gunner's barrage-he heard them approaching and responded accordingly. Lazu snarled in frustration as his shields began to take fire-the Elite jumped behind another snowdrift. Terry raised his weapon, ready to feel the bullets next.**

**Surprisingly, the Warthog reversed slightly and drove off towards the gate. Evidently it was going to raise the alarm back at the base. "Stop him!" Terry yelled, firing his rifle.**

**Horatio gritted his teeth, pulled his sniper rifle off his back, stepped out from cover and sighted along the scope. The driver's side was facing him-the driver's face jumped closer through the magnifier. Tensing himself, he fired his first shot with his new weapon.**

**The recoil was considerable-the butt of the rifle kicked his shoulder. A jarring noise accompanied the shot, and a white trail also. In what was something of a fluke, the bullet had gone straight through the man's head-the 'Hog slowed and stopped as the driver slumped over dead, brains and gore spilling onto the dashboard. The gunner hadn't suspected the sudden stop and fell off the top of the LRV with a yelp.**

**Lazu stepped towards the man, growling, a hand going to his plasma pistol. The man drew his pistol and fired, but the rounds failed to penetrate the alien's shields. The first blast of jade plasma took off the man's arm. The second splattered his head. The corpse toppled, steaming.**

**Lazu stood over the dead man and spread his mandibles in a sneering action. "That was the last of them. What shall our next move be?"**

**Horatio nodded at the 'Hog. "It's still in one piece. I say we take it for some recon-see if we can't locate the rest of the team. Quick, soon that base's gonna realise we killed their scouts."**

**Terry stretched his arms. "Sounds good to me. Let's head west, like you said earlier." He turned to the Warthog. "I'll drive."**

**With some difficulty they all piled into the vehicle. Lazu had to squeeze his massive legs together just to fit, and his right arm stuck out awkwardly. Horatio manned the turret, and Terry turned the ignition. It sputtered, and the dashboard flickered on. The ungainly-looking LRV roared away, edging towards the snow dunes so it would remain in cover.**

**Stationed on top of the gatehouse, a sentry followed the 'Hog with a pair of binoculars. When it disappeared from sight, he keyed his radio. "Captain Stillis, we have confirmation, hostiles are present on the southern fence. They took out one of our prototypes, but they have the other one and are making their way west. Orders sir?"**

**Through the mike came the sound of his CO's voice. "**_**Leave three men with heavy weapons and have the rest of the garrison proceed to the western fence. Another one of their groups is present there-this way we can eliminate both of them. Tell Sergeant Toven to send reconnaissance east-make certain the ground sensors are active. There may be more bogies inbound."**_

"**Aye sir. Erm, sir-there is one more detail-one of the hostiles-"**

"_**What of them?"**_

"**One was definitely an Elite sir."**

**There was a moment of silence over the radio, punctuated by the hissing wind. Then:**

"_**Do not give anything away. Do you understand? Our treaty must remain secret. I have new orders for you-lock down the armory. Ready the detonator-if we have to leave this place a smoking crater we will. Snap to it, son."**_

'**Aye sir." The man descended down the ladder, and began issuing instructions.**

* * *

**The grenade went off, and an enemy soldier screamed as the shrapnel lacerated his face. Three of his comrades ducked behind their barricade and returned fire. Len, his face-plate broken, reciprocated. His face was plastered with a rictus grin-he lived for stuff like this. But privately he was pissed.**

**When they'd landed, of course they'd been immediately set upon by these bastards. But with the help of a few well-thrown grenades by Xavier and Dasa's awesome fuel rod cannon (God, he wished he had one of those), they'd broken one side of the attack. Now they were pressing forward, intent on exacting revenge.**

**But they were slowing now-sustained fire had halted their momentum. Dasa had cleverly used one of his plasma grenades to create a sizeable depression and so give them a foxhole, but it was all they could do to return fire. Xavier had taken a bullet to the shoulder, but was otherwise OK. Still, they needed to do something, and soon.**

**Len lay with his assault rifle cradled in his arms, occasionally turning to fire a burst. Beside him, Dasa had laid down his heavy cannon and was harassing the enemy with his spike rifle. Molten spikes chattered as he sprayed the attackers with deadly hail. One of them cried out as a burning round penetrated his arm, and fell.**

**Dasa growled his pleasure; like Len, he revelled in close combat. He fired off more shots. "Another kill! They fall like aspens before the storm! Come, humans, let us partake of glory's sweet nectar!"**

"**Or, "Len muttered under his breath, "we could try and stay alive." He flicked the release switch on his weapon and slapped in a fresh clip. **

**Dasa seemed disappointed. "To consider only survival is to make life into death in all but name. To seek glory is to-"**

"**Yeah, yeah, cool. We can discuss respective ideals later, Dasa. I'm running out of bullets and Xav's wounded-got any ideas?"**

**The Elite champed his teeth. "We are pinned down. I see no escape method. All we can hope to do is make them fearful of us. Mayhap they will retreat."**

**Len grunted, unimpressed. "Great plan. Keep shooting." And he did just that.**

**Xavier crawled over to them, his shoulder blade a puckered red hole. "Listen guys-I've got some mines in my pack. We could toss them and-"**

"**No thanks. I've seen what your stuff does-we'll be lucky to have any hair left. Besides, you throw like a girl, Xavier."**

**Dasa seemed confused. "What relevance does gender have in physical throwing?"**

"**Long story, "Len told him. "I'm telling you, one of the other groups will find us and bail us out. We just gotta wait-"**

**At that moment all hell broke loose.**

**A bizarre-looking Warthog appeared behind them. Len shouted in alarm and Dasa turned to fire, but then they saw the dark skin of the gunner's fingers.. It was Horatio. He waved one hand at them.**

**They shouted and cheered as the vehicle drove straight towards the enemy ranks, the machine gun ripping them to bits. Men attempted to dive out of the way, some succeeding, but eventually being downed by the turret. One escaped unscathed and attempted to run, but Dasa's spike rifle took him down. Resistance broke, and the enemy fire ceased, for the moment.**

**It was time for the marines to go on the offensive-Len, Dasa and Xavier pulled themselves from the hole and charged the fence. Xavier grabbed a mine from his pack and tossed it-it spiraled spider-like through the air, impacted on the fence and exploded, tearing a decent-sized hole in the wire. Len punched Xavier on the shoulder. "I said not to do that, idiot!"**

"**You got a better idea? We gotta get inside, or we're sitting ducks!"**

**The Warthog ground to a halt before them-Terry hopped out of the driver's seat and approached them. "Looked like you could've used a hand."**

**Len nodded tersely. "Any idea who these bastards are? They're wearing insignia but I don't recognise it-"**

**Dasa spoke. "I do."**

**Everyone turned to him. Horatio scowled. "How's that?"**

"**In our war with your race, we encountered those not of the UNSC. These we destroyed anyway, since the Prophets, devil-spawn that they were, commanded it so. Intelligence suggested you were their nemesis. They had a name…" Dasa frowned, trying to remember. "The Insurrectionists."**

**The humans stood dumbfounded. Horatio scarcely believed it. **_**The Insurrectionists? God, I haven't heard that name for…well, years. Not since Madrigal. Are they back? Maybe they've decided to seize their chance, what with the peacekeeping and everything-**_

"**Look!" Xavier cried, pointing.**

**On top of one of the many concrete buildings inside the complex, a figure appeared. It was carrying a long tube on its shoulder, and it was pointed at them.**

"**RPG!" Xavier screamed. "Through the fence! Go, go, go!"**

**The group frantically squeezed through the hole in the fence, seeking cover in between the buildings. Lazu attempted to fire at the RPG-wielding Insurrectionist, but missed. The man prepared to fire.**

**In that moment, Dasa, Lazu and Horatio were on one side. Len and Xavier were on the other. And Terry was still struggling through the fence. There was a soft **_**phoomph**_** as the rocket sped towards them.**

**Dasa, Lazu and Horatio dived towards a small shed, trying to get behind it. Len and Xavier did the same with the barricades set up beforehand by the enemy. **

**Terry threw himself sideways and prayed. **

**The rocket hit the snow and made an ungodly explosion. It drove him down, and blood spurted from his ears and nose despite his helmet. Coughing, he fumbled for the neck seal and found it. Terry pulled off the helmet and spat a red stream into the snow, while more of it dripped from his nose and ears.**

**His training kicked in quickly-he took stock of the situation. The rest of the group was nowhere in sight. He was lying on the edge of a small depression made by the RPG, not far from the gate, which lay unattended. But, through his damaged ears, he heard alarms and the sounds of running feet. The enemy was coming. He needed a place to hide. And hopefully, link up with his squadmates.**

**He grabbed his weapon (which was lying beside him) and shakily got to his feet, and made his way right, following the fence and passing the gate. Up ahead, he could see more buildings. The distance was about fifty paces.**

**He cautiously led his rifle along the rooftops to his left. Nothing. The snow hissed in his ears.**

**Far off, he heard a muted explosion. With any luck, it was his friends, giving these rebel chumps hell. **

**He was closing the gap; twenty paces-**

**A bearish rebel stepped out from an alley, carrying a pistol. Voicing a yell, he charged the Marine, firing. Terry sidestepped, snapped up his own rifle and fired. The man dropped, but the noise had alerted more rebels-he heard them approaching.**

**He went to the iron corrugated door and wrenched it open. Rust flakes fluttered down from the steel beams. He entered quickly and closed the door.**

**It was small and poky; there was a single bare globe dangling from the ceiling and a steel bench along one wall, that was it. It appeared to be a maintenance shed-tools lay on the bench, wreathed in dust. Terry went forward to inspect the bench, when his foot clanged on something. Frowning, he knelt to look underneath the bench.**

**Cans-at least a dozen. He unscrewed the lid on one and sniffed its contents. Smelt like paint. Bringing it into the light, he saw it was white. For camouflage purposes, no doubt.**

**Camouflage. He dipped one finger into the can. The paint stained it alabaster. Terry grinned, eyeing the cans. "Now this is gonna be interesting."**

* * *

"**We've gone and left the others behind, "Xavier whined.**

"**Shut up, "snarled Len. "We were lucky to have gotten away at all." He glared at his squadmate. The bullet wound was troubling him, but the blood flow had stopped. One small victory on this day, which had truly gone to shit.**

**They had taken cover in one of the buildings on the corner of the fence, which happened to be two-storey. Len and Xavier were currently on the top floor, which had proved to be a communications area-radio equipment, generators and small computers littered the room. There had been a few rebels present, but only one had had a weapon, and Len had taken him down straight away. The other men had just been radio techs-they'd died easily enough, and one they'd been able to take as a prisoner. That man now sat hog-tied beside the door with a gag in his mouth and a murderous look in his eyes. **

**Len paced, worried. It was far too dangerous to go outside, as squads of rebels searched the complex. They'd yet to check this building, but that wouldn't last, he knew. And when they did, this little fete would be over.**

**Over where the radios lay, Xavier tried in vain to establish a COM link with any of the squad, or HighCom. No luck so far-one couldn't blame Xavier, however. His field was explosives. Ollie would have been able to do it, but Len hadn't seen him since the drop, nor Kyle or Gerun. Privately, he suspected they hadn't made it. **_**Stow those thoughts, dickhead. Focus on the here and now.**_

**Len ran his hands over the shaved stubble of his head (he'd removed his helmet). "Well? Got anything?"**

**Xavier shook his head. "Nada. And there's no point trying-the magnetic field out here is creating a storm of interference. We're stuck here."**

"**Fine." Len paused for a moment, then stood, putting on his helmet. "Then we go."**

"**What? You said it was too dangerous."**

"**I know that, "Len snapped. "But you really wanna stay here and get mulched by those jack-offs downstairs? Listen, we could get outta here. Take that guy with us, and maybe he can tell us something. Find the others and get the hell away."**

**Xavier depolarized his visor and rubbed his forehead. "I dunno…."**

"**You got a better idea?" said Len, unconsciously throwing Xavier's words back in his face.**

"**Alright, fine then."**

**Len nodded grimly. "Good. Now, first-"**

**The sound of the door on the bottom floor opening echoed up the stairwell. Len's head snapped around. "Terrific. Now how do we get out of here?"**

**Xavier pointed at the prisoner. "Maybe he knows."**

**Len cracked his knuckles. "Maybe he does. Xav, go watch the stairwell-anyone comes up stick a bullet in his face." The Marine hurried over to the door.**

**Kneeling down to eye level, he ripped away the gag and got down to business. "Your buddies are coming, and we need another way down. Where?"**

**The rebel spouted a stream of anti-UNSC invective and spat on Len's visor. The Marine sighed, and backhanded the man across the face. "I'll ask again. Where is another way down?"**

**The rebel sat silent, glaring at him. Len's temper broke-he grabbed the man by the lapels and put his knife to the rebel's throat. "Here's how it works. You tell me now, or I give your neck a nice big smile. Your choice." He made to slit the man's throat.**

**The man's courage broke, and he started babbling. "The panel, over there. Rip it away and there's a shaft. It used to be a garbage chute."**

"**Thankyou, sir, you've been very helpful." He sheathed the knife, and shot the man with a pistol. Standing up, he went to the door.**

**The rebel squad was inching their way up the stairs-hearing the gunshot, they became cautious. Three men ascended the creaking plastic and concrete stairs, their machine guns pointed upwards at the door. Nothing could be heard except for the creaking of the stairs.**

**Suddenly a small, black sphere rolled its way out of the doorway-it fizzed quietly, issuing green smoke. One man nudged it cautiously with the butt of his rifle. Nothing happened. Inside the sphere, however, a small photo-eye opened and started surveying the men, targeting certain parts. The first man made to step past.**

**With a **_**shlik**_** the grenade exploded, with computer-coordinated fragments of razor-sharp metal hissing in all directions. But most of the metal flew and embedded themselves in the legs and arms of the men-places where tendons were located.**

**The trio screamed as they fell, blood spurting from their wounds. Lethal metal ripped through their flesh, cutting tendons. The three fell to the ground jerking spasmodically. They weren't dead, but they were on their way. The other rebels gaped in silent horror.**

**Len, standing beside the door, snickered silently. One of Xavier's inventions, when he'd been in extensive training for use of new Elite technologies. The grenade held a tiny AI, which located vulnerable spots on the bodies of targets. It then programmed the metal scatter accordingly. It was an amazing piece of technology, but was very rare. Still, Xav knew how to put it to good use. He drew his pistol, and cocked it.**

**The rebels were angry now, and charged through the doorway. Xavier had gone back into the room, taking cover behind some tables. He fired a few shots at them, and ducked. The rebels continued their run unabated, quickly encircling Xavier's hiding spot.**

**Len stepped quietly behind them, and fired twice, rounds tearing through the heads of two. The other whirled around, but a burst from Xavier dispatched him.**

**That was taken care of-but looking out the window, Len saw more squads converging on their position. They had to bail.**

**Len strode over to the panel indicated earlier, and used his knife to carve through it. As soon as he was done, he pulled it off and threw it away. He peered down the shaft. Xavier's voice behind him asked, "How is it?"**

"**Not wide, and it gets narrower. I'll go first. Watch my back." Len unspoiled a loop of rope from his battle pack, tied it around a partition and threw it down into the darkness, along with a grenade. It bounced off the walls, and exploded dimly below. "Hope they didn't hear that." Xavier, who was busy drawing something from his pack, didn't reply.**

**He grabbed the rope and rappelled down the shaft. He got stuck twice, but with some wriggling he made it to the bottom, and out onto the street.**

**He waited behind a dumpster, until Xavier's form bounced out of the small gap in the wall. Xavier brushed himself down, and got up. "Where to now?"**

**Len gazed upward. "You left something for 'em?"**

**The upper level of the building exploded outward, showering the surrounding area with debris.**

**Len grinned and the pair bumped fists. "Right, let's head through that alley for starters-"**

**The wall next to his head exploded as bullets struck. The two Marines frantically ran for cover as a five-man squad of rebels fired on them, coming up from the street adjacent to the building. Len looked about for an escape route. "Xav, we gotta split up. Meet me back here, alright?"**

"**Gotcha!"**

"**Good luck buddy." With that, Len hurled himself through the alleyway, as bullets sparked off the ground. Panting, he got to his feet and started running, but not before priming another grenade and tossing it behind him.**

**Screams rent the air-the rebels had paid for their eagerness. Len laughed wildly and took a right turn.**

**Two rebels stepped out from the end of the street, weapons trained on Len. "Damnit!" he shouted as the pair opened fire, and a white-hot bullet struck him in the ribs. Stifling a yell, he ducked behind another dumpster. He poked his rifle over the top and fired a prolonged burst. Hearing nothing, he peered around the corner of the dumpster.**

**The two rebels were down. And they hadn't taken bullet wounds. In fact, as Len leaned closer, their throats had been slit. Who'd done that?**

_**Who cares.**_** Len resumed his run, ducking low and keeping to the shadows.**

**Xavier, meanwhile, was being pursued by three rebels, and was having a tough time shaking them. He half turned and fired, but the wily rebels ducked behind a wall. Xavier uttered a stream of Japanese curses and kept running.**

**And ran smack into a dead end. **_**Fuck! **_**He looked around for another way out, but there was none. He tried his radio. "**_**Len, Horatio, Terry, please respond. Anyone there? Shit."**_

**Nothing on his radio. Xavier gritted his teeth, and reloaded his gun. **_**If I'm going down, I'm taking these bastards down with me-**_

**The three rebels rounded the corner. The leader smiled in anticipation and cocked his rifle.**

**With a barely perceptible **_**whoosh**_** a completely white figure plunged in among the rebels, jumping down from the roof. They shouted in alarm and fired, but their shots were wild and ricocheted off the walls. The new arrival had a knife, and was using it to deadly effect. The first two rebels went down in a gurgling spray, but the third had gotten a clear shot.**

**Xavier snapped up his rifle and killed the final rebel. He approached the white figure, smiling sardonically. "Terry. Still using the old ghost disguise?"**

**Terry, completely smeared in white paint, grinned. "If it hurts, it works. You seen anyone else?"**

**Xavier shook his head. "Nup. I was with Len, but we got separated."**

**Terry nodded his head towards the alleyway leading out. "Then let's find 'em."**

* * *

**Len sat in the small shack and waited to die. What a stupid way to go, with twelve rebels pouring fire into this tiny shed he'd managed to take cover in.**

**Things had gone sour-two squads had ambushed him, and he'd barely escaped. Now he was sitting in here, the proverbial sitting duck.**

**Len patted his combat harness for any grenades-but he had none left. For the fifth time, he tried his radio. "**_**If there is anyone out there, respond, damnit! I'm trapped in a shed on the northern fence, under heavy fire. Need immediate assistance. I repeat, need immediate assistance."**_

**Static hissed through his radio. Then-**

"_**Len, we hear you. Sit tight, the cavalry's on its way."**_

**It was Kyle. Len scrabbled for his radio. "**_**Sarge? That you?"**_

'_**You bet. Now, sit back and enjoy the show."**_

**Outside, the rebels had formed a semi-circle around the shed, with a pair of snipers on the rooftops. The sergeant in charge watched with satisfaction. Soon they'd rip down the shack, and make those UNSC pigs pay.**

**He keyed his radio. "**_**Corporal Higgins, send another squad over from the barracks. We'll need heavy weapons to speed up the job-"**_

**With a crackle, his radio signal disappeared in a storm of static. Frowning, the sergeant tried it again. Had the magnetic field interrupted him? No, they'd worked that out as soon as they got here. This was different.**

**Someone was **_**blocking**_** him. The sergeant turned to one of his men. "Find us a radio technician and tell him to-"**

**Three black orbs spun out from an alley and landed in amongst one squad-they exploded, shredding the men there. As the smoke cleared, the sergeant saw that they looked nothing other than minced meat. He spun to another of his men. "Get a squad over there and find whoever's doing that!"**

**With a pained yell one of the snipers fell off the roof, his body crashing to the ground. The second peered about for a target, but a green bolt of energy took him down as well. Looking where the shot had come from, the sergeant saw an Elite**_**-an Elite, Christ-**_** standing tall on another roof, a carbine in his hands.**

**He was about to tell his men to fire on the alien, but there was no point. Four Marines had converged upon what was left of his men, to virtually no resistance. And now he could see-emerging from an alley-another goddamned Elite, this one in golden armour and wielding an energy sword, cutting down those left.**

**The man turned to run, but a white figure appeared from nowhere. Shouting in panic, the sergeant fired, but to no avail. The figure threw something, and the sergeant fell to the ground, only dimly aware of the knife in his throat.**

**Len pushed his way through the wreckage of the shack, and turned to his teammates-Horatio, Xavier, Kyle, Ollie, Dasa, Gerun and Lazu. "Sure as hell good to see you guys."**

**Kyle depolarised his helmet. "Likewise, Corporal. What's the situation?"**

**Len removed his helmet and spat on the ground. "Everything's gone to shit. Apparently these guys are Insurrectionists. Didn't think there were any left."**

**Kyle frowned. "Neither did I."**

**Ollie pushed his way forward. "Sarge, I can't keep jamming their radios forever. Where to now?"**

**Kyle pointed at the large building in the centre of the complex. "I suggest we get inside."**


	5. Chapter 5

***Chapter Four**

**14th**** of October, 2553**

**UNSC HighCom, Russia**

**Earth**

**Lord Hood's fist slammed on the table as he faced the ONI officer. "You told me it was a practice mission, damnit!"**

**The spook in question, a cadaverous-looking individual named Wertman, shrugged his shoulders. "You agreed, Lord Hood, that ONI handle all of the logistics concerning experimental projects and missions-"**

"**Yes, "growled Hood, his brows bunching together in his anger, "yes, but not send the test subjects into the heart of a hostile enemy! Insurrectionists for God's sake! Who knows what kind of trouble they're in now? Furthermore, the Elite commandos are there as well, and damage to the alliance is the last thing we need right now."**

**Wertman's eyes twitched. "Technically, they have no jurisdiction-"**

"**I don't give a shit about what jurisdiction they have! Our marines are in a mess, and I intend to see the back here safe! And if I don't, "said Hood, his voice dripping with fury, "you'll be paying for it, Lieutenant-Commander."**

**Wertman visibly blanched, and gave a stiff salute. "Yessir."**

**Hood gestured to one of his assistants. "Go find Captain Tonley, and tell him to rustle up a quick reaction force-four Pelicans and gunship escorts. They're to make all haste to these co-ordinates." He handed the aide a sheaf of paper. "And I want them gone in no less than thirty minutes. Go."**

**The assistant hurriedly left the conference room. At the same time, the imposing figures of R'tas Vadum' and his bodyguards stomped through the entrance. The alien Shipmaster pointed a finger at Lord Hood. "What treachery is this, Lord? Word has reached my ears that our combined strike team has been sent into the lion's den. You promised us there would be no betrayals." Though his voice was level, R'tas' fury was palpable.**

**Hood hid a smile as he nodded towards Wertman. "That's the man you want, Shipmaster. He's gone behind our backs and schemed up this plan. So what do you have to say for yourself, eh Lieutenant-Commander?"**

**Before Wertman could answer, R'tas moved forward with lightning speed and grabbed the intel officer by the throat. "Seek not to confound the Sangheili, little crow, "whispered the alien Shipmaster, "for you may not have the stomach for it. If any Sangheili dies due to your subterfuge, you will not live to see the dawn." Letting Wertman go, he swung his lizard-like gaze to Hood. "This man has practiced deceit. Perhaps it takes a deceiver to know his kin."**

**Hood held up his hands. "I assure you, I had no idea of what this man had planned-"**

**R'tas waved a hand dismissively. "Words only. Bring back our warriors, human. Know that we've not finished with you." With one last venomous glance at Wertman, who was still coughing and lying on the ground, the Elite and his bodyguards left.**

**Hood sighed, and, running a callused hand over his face, eyed the ONI officer on the ground. "You bloody idiot."**

* * *

**Horatio aimed his rifle down the narrow alleyway and saw one rebel guard with his back to him. An opportunity like this couldn't be passed up. Horatio unstrapped his knife and threw it into the man's unprotected back, sending him face-down into the snow. He turned back to the tiny courtyard in which the squad was situated. There wasn't much here apart from the two ways out-just crates and barrels. Horatio gestured down the alley. "There was one, but he's down."**

**Kyle grunted. "Good. We're still too far from the building, though. We gotta stealth it. Len, take point." Len nodded his affirmation and hopped down from the crate on which he was perched. Gerun pointed to Dasa. "He is our scout. Let him accompany Corporal Len."**

**Horatio snorted. "You're not still following those rules they gave us at the start, are you? Face it, this mission's gone to shit. We don't need to play by the rules-"**

"**He was offering help, Horatio, "Kyle growled, "and you may as well get with the program. Fine then. Len, go with Dasa and scout ahead. The rest of us'll wait here."**

**The pair nodded, and they slipped away into the shadows. They had traversed two streets when Dasa tapped him on the shoulder. "What?" Len asked. Dasa pointed to their left, down a wide alley. It was not long though-about seven paces. "Footsteps. Take cover." The pair huddled on either sides of the alley.**

**A few seconds later a small procession passed by. Eight rebel soldiers, all clad in body armour and wielding submachine guns, guarded a fairly large container which was situated atop a robotic dolly-or, as Len saw, squinting down the alley, **_**several**_** robotic dollies. They had all been cannibalized to form one large motorized platform. Wires were poking out everywhere. The container was matte black and was divided into three sections. The group looked nervous, as if they were in the middle of something that, if they were caught doing, would land them all in serious trouble. Len looked at Dasa. "Should be easy enough to follow them. You report back and-"**

**Dasa made a "shush" gesture with his hand. "Wait." It was a good thing they did too-two more rebels brought up the rear, these ones carrying sawn-off shotguns. They waited half a minute, then followed their comrades. Dasa split his mandibles in a wide grin. "Those two are mine. Wait here." Before Len could stop him, the black-armored Elite lay down his fuel rod gun, drew his spike rifle and lumbered off down the alleyway.**

**Len cursed inwardly. "What is it with Elites and trying to make everything a competition?" he muttered. He'd noticed that, among his squadmates, they were gradually letting their guards down and accepting the aliens as fellow soldiers. All except Horatio.**

**Len sighed and rubbed off some snow that had made its way through his broken visor. The man was bitter-God knows he was good at hiding it beneath an equable demeanor, but Len had known him long enough to see how things really were. Horatio wasn't a forgiving person, and Len knew that no force on Earth or Heaven would change his viewpoint. Elites had glassed Madrigal, and no alliance would change that. So far, Len was prepared to put up with it. But if Horatio's disdain for the Elites ever jeopardised a mission, then as his superior (and that wasn't even including Kyle) Len would have to put his foot down.**

**He heard footsteps and he pointed his rifle, only to see his Elite teammate slinking back along the alley. Len stepped out from cover and faced him. "Did you get 'em?"**

**The Elite nodded, and patted the Spiker at his belt. "They were unsuspecting. And I am far too smart to be lured close, where those weapons would have devastating effect. Shotguns, yes?"**

**Len laughed. "Yeah."**

**Dasa nodded thoughtfully. "Formidable equipment. The Jiralhanae learned to utilise such firearms on Delta Halo. But now you are our allies, and so we learn." He reached down to his belt and tested the sharpness of one of the jutting blades attached to his weapon.**

**Len voiced a question he had been hiding for a while. "Why do you carry a spike rifle? I thought you guys hated everything about the Brutes."**

**Dasa looked almost coy, and his eyes turned shrewd. "I have always been a great believer in irony. My fellow warriors may frown on it, but I consider it to be a source of great humour. The expressions Jiralhanae wear when I slay them with this weapon are hilarious." The alien laughed heartily.**

**Len grinned at Dasa. For an Elite, that had been a surprising admission. In his experience, the Elites had none of the natural gung-ho common to the marines serving in the UNSC. They had trouble understanding some of their remarks and jibes, but there, in that moment, a sense of humour had been revealed. Maybe this alliance wasn't totally crazy after all.**

**They made their way back to the others and reported what they had found to Kyle. The hoary old veteran's eyes narrowed through the visor. "So they were guarding a package of some sort?"**

'**That's right, sir."**

**The sergeant flexed his gloved fingers and upholstered his battle rifle. "Then we check it out. It's contraband of some sort, is my guess. Software, fissile material-who knows? Len, you're back on point. Terry, rearguard. Move out!"**

**Gerun snapped out his own orders. "Dasa, flank Private Terry. Lazu, keep the vigil on those rooftops and watch for snipers."**

**The nine-strong band cautiously made their way through the streets. But no-one was really worried-all opposition had broken. After some time, they abandoned stealth and increased their pace.**

**Within minutes they were crouched behind a low wall, eyeing the squat main building. A chain-link fence similar to the one surrounding the complex was present. Halogen lights cast white pools of light. The gate was a modest affair-only corrugated iron. However, computer-linked turrets-old M202 XP models-were situated atop the fence, four in all. Even now, they flickered back and forth, searching for potential figures. They would be difficult to bypass.**

**A garrison of five Insurrectionist troops stood guard, two outside the fence and the rest inside. They had basic assault rifles, of the old MA-4 variety. As for the building itself, it was typically ugly. A pair of massive sliding doors acted as the entrance, mounted on rollers. Frosted windows, rimed with ice, lined all sides of the structure, making it look like an office block. The roof of the battered-looking construction had been retrofitted into an air pad, and a derelict transport ship sat on it. It looked like it could carry around ten passengers-no more.**

**Kyle pointed at said ship. "If there are any rebel officers left, they'll try and fly the coop in that. We gotta get up there and use it to get the hell out of here."**

**Gerun held up a massive hand. "Hold. We will have to plot our advance. I see defense turrets and guards. And who knows how many more could lie concealed within the building? This attack must not be a mindless charge."**

**Kyle inclined his head in agreement. "Fair point. Right, our first priority is to disable those turrets. Ollie?"**

**The tech specialist tapped his chin thoughtfully. "If I could get into the circuitry of one, I could spread a virus along all of them. Assuming they're all linked-and I'm guessing they are, in order to conserve power. But I'll need to get close-and those guards aren't gonna let me. Who's up for that?"**

**Horatio unlimbered his sniper rifle. "I'll take them out."**

**Kyle snorted. "You think you're that quick enough? No, son, you're gonna need help."**

**Lazu stepped forward. "I will aid Horatio. Hopefully we can dispatch all of the soldiers before they realise they are under attack."**

**Horatio rolled his eyes-the damn alien was poking his nose in again! "I can handle this without you-"**

"**I insist." Lazu's voice was even, but his eyes hardened. Horatio resolutely folded his arms.**

**There were a few seconds of awkward silence, then Kyle scowled and thumped Horatio on the shoulder. "You got a sniping buddy, Private. Get used to it. Now then, deployment. Horatio and Lazu, circle around to the other side and find a good angle. When you have, send us two squawks on the radio. I want the guards on the inside down first-we'll handle the ones at the gate. Ollie, you take this-" he handed the marine a small arc welder- "and cut through the fence. Once their attention's been diverted, kill the turrets. Let's go-"**

"**Sarge, hang on a minute." Len had spotted something. He motioned for quiet.**

**The eight rebel escorts appeared. They had apparently noticed the loss of their rearguard, and were making all haste to the gates and safety. The container bounced on its robotic platform as the Insurrectionists approached the gates, and gained access. They formed two lines, one to either side of the container. From the building, the massive doors opened with a screech that cut through the hissing snow. A figure emerged. He was wearing URF fatigues, with their emblem on the chest. However, a captain's insignia adorned his breast, and he wore an olive green cap. His features were sunken and gaunt, and a small grey moustache covered his upper lip. He looked to be in his seventies.**

**Horatio heard a sudden intake of breath-he glanced to his left and saw Kyle staring at the figure in shock. "What's wrong Sarge?"**

**Kyle was silent for a few seconds, then composed himself. "Nothing. It's nothing. Keep quiet now."**

**Horatio knew something was up, but he did as he was told. One of the rebels, obviously the ranking officer, saluted the new arrival. A brief discussion ensued, which ended with the pair entering the building, and five rebels taking defensive positions. Three others attended the container, and brought it inside. The light from a halogen lamp spilled onto it, illuminating its surface. Strange, spiky symbols were etched on it.**

"**By the Gods…." Horatio turned, to see Gerun, this time, surveying the container with consternation. "What is it now?"**

**Gerun didn't answer for a moment, then turned his attention to Kyle. "Sergeant, we must secure that receptacle. At all costs."**

**Kyle cocked his head. "What's so important about it?"**

"**The container itself? Nothing. But the symbols on it are Jiralhanae."**

**That got their attention. Kyle tore off his helmet. "What the hell? Why would the Insurrectionists have any Brute inventory? The Brutes hate all humans full stop."**

"**Maybe they stole it, "suggested Xavier.**

"**Or, "said Gerun in a bass rumble, "they have opened negotiations with the Jiralhanae. Just as we have done with you. The Brutes were ever willing to break the rules, as I recall."**

**Len snorted. "I dunno. Sounds kinda flimsy. These bastards can be sneaky-God knows they gave us enough hell in Epsilon Eridanus."**

**Kyle made a decision. "Alright then. If that container evidence for a possible Brute-URF alliance, we seize it. But only after that building is ours. Understood?"**

'**Yessir, 'chorused the marines.**

**Gerun looked back at the aforementioned building. "Our task is doubly hard now. Their ranks have swelled. Those escorting the container have returned. The doors have been locked. This will require more planning."**

**Kyle rubbed his stubbled chin. "Even so, I didn't see any bodyguards with that…..person that came out. We could take them down in our own time."**

**Gerun stayed resolute. "Nonetheless. We must not risk lives in a foolhardy attempt."**

"**I know that, damn you!" Kyle seemed fed up. He faced the gilden-armored Elite. "Today's been bad enough without your dithering. Don't annoy me, Gerun. Just let me think." The sergeant rubbed his eyes, sat up against the wall and sighed. "My head's killing me."**

**Gerun's craggy features turned into a snarl, but before he could say anything Dasa stepped forward, hands spread. "Let us not fight amongst ourselves. It is the surest path to ruin." The gangly Elite looked like he was about to say something else, but then fell silent. **

**Then Horatio laughed, a hard sound cutting through the quiet patter of snow. Kyle turned to face him, brows raised. "Care to share the joke, Private?"**

**Horatio looked at each member of his squad in turn, including the Elites. "We missed the obvious. We were put together for our skill in all areas. Why don't we put it to use-all at once?"**

**Terry was intrigued. "What are you getting at?"**

**Horatio depolarised his helmet and smiled, his white teeth a startling contrast against his dark skin. "I'm suggesting we launch a frontal assault."**

* * *

**The frontal assault went something like this.**

**The thirteen rebel soldiers were mostly recruits, disillusioned colonists who had joined secret privateer groups after fleeing their destroyed homes. Four were veterans, and had fought the UNSC and Covenant alike. They had orders to stave off any attacks until the Captain could complete his task.**

**The lieutenant in charge, Higgins, was understandably nervous. He had seen the routing of their forces at the shack, and had no desire to clash with those deadly marines or Elites again. But they had the turrets, and superior numbers. It should have comforted him, but it didn't. He shifted uncomfortably, as the snow pooled around his boots. His men did much the same.**

**Higgins noticed one of his men inspecting a turret, and he walked over. "What's the problem?" he asked, yelling to be heard over the wind.**

**The soldier, a technician, scratched his auburn hair and shrugged his shoulders. "One of them's stopped targeting. Don't know why. I'm thinking of prying off the panel." The turret in question was stuttering, stopping and starting.**

**Higgins shook his head. "No. We can't risk having them off-"**

**The turret exploded in a shower of metal, lacerating the tech's face. The man screamed and dropped to the alabaster ground, hands clutched to his face. Higgins whirled to face the smoking remains of the turret. **_**What the hell-**_

**The gate guards had sighted something amongst the warren of cluttered sheds and outposts beyond the main building. They opened fire with their rifles, but Higgins couldn't see anything. **

**The gunfire slowed, and ceased. Silence.**

**From beyond the front gate, a sphere of green energy arced its way towards the gate guards. They tried to dive out of the way, but they were too slow. A roiling, emerald explosion consumed them, and blew a massive hole in the front gate. Higgins stared in shock, then snapped out of it. "Pull back, everybody back!"**

**He keyed his radio. '**_**Captain, we've got hostiles-"**_

**His radio was filled with static. He couldn't get a signal. Swearing, he turned to run backwards.**

**A sniper's bullet penetrated his left temple, sending a fountain of blood and brains into the air. The corpse of Lieutenant Higgins fell, and sprawled on the snow.**

**The rebels were down to ten men now. A corporal assumed command. "Stay low, everyone. Griggs, Filiad, get the heavy weapons." Two soldiers sprinted towards the eastern side of the building, searching for rocket launchers buried there.**

**They dug about in the snow, as the sniper fire continued, taking down two more before concerted fire at the location of the white trails had the desired effect. Scrabbling in the snow, they uncovered a cylinder of black-**

**A white figure emerged from the snow next to them, impossibly blended in. It carried a knife, which it used to lay open the throats of both soldiers. The turrets turned to track it.**

**More energy projectiles and-now-frag grenades hurtled towards the turrets. Two went up, but the last escaped the attack and opened fire at the figure, along with five other rebels. **

**They had, unfortunately, forgotten the order to stay down.**

**Up on the rooftop of a concrete block of a building, Horatio, Kyle and Lazu opened fire. Horatio's sniper rifle was the better weapon, but Kyle's battle rifle and Lazu's carbine did the job. Four rebels went down. But the fifth jammed down the trigger on his rifle, and bullets lanced towards Terry.**

**Back at the building, Terry grunted in pain as a bullet cut through his shoulder, and threw the knife. It missed, but the rebel had to dodge aside, and he fell to a burst from Terry's own weapon. He turned-and saw the turret targeting him.**

**Then Ollie, who'd slowly snuck up, his body covered with a harness designed to deflect simple sensor arrays, leaped forward and thrusted a data spike into the turret's workings. The spike, crafted by Ollie, sent a series of viruses into the turret and completely shut it down. Snickering, he drew his SMG and waved Gerun, Dasa, Len and Xavier forward.**

**Terry was in strife-the remaining rebels had tracked him down, and he'd taken another bullet, this one to the ribs. He could still feel it, pinging off his ribs, and he stifled a scream.**

**He fired his rifle, but it was no use. The wounds had robbed him of his aim. One rebel snorted and stepped forward, smashing the butt of his rifle into Terry's helmet, breaking his nose. Terry dropped to the ground, cradling his head. The rebels grinned at each other and all aimed their rifles.**

**With a **_**phip**_** one rebel took a flurry of needles to the chest and was torn in half by the ensuing explosion. Two more were killed by Dasa, and Len killed another. The cavalry had arrived, and the rebel force was shattered. Len knelt and held out a hand to Terry. Grimacing, the stealth expert shakily got to his feet. "I got hit a coupla times."**

**While Len called for Xavier, who carried the first-aid kit, Ollie trailed in, a disappointed expression on his face through the helmet. "I didn't even get to change magazines. Wimps." He kicked the corpse of one lightly.**

**A clanking noise was heard. They all turned, to see the rebel that Terry had supposedly killed, a rictus grin on his bloodied face, holding a tube on his shoulder, aimed at them. "**_**Move!"**_** Len cried, and everybody dived for cover. The rocket whooshed out of the tube, knocking the rebel onto his back.**

**Gerun was still standing, motionless before the incoming rocket. At the last second, he bunched his shoulders and sidestepped. The rocket plowed into the snow and exploded harmlessly. The golden Elite grunted derisively, and drew his sword. The rebel tried to draw his sidearm, but didn't even manage to clear the holster before the gleaming blade removed his head.**

**Horatio gave Gerun a hard look as the Elite deactivated his sword. "You didn't have to do that."**

**The alien snorted dismissively. "What difference is there, when your enemy lies dead?"**

"**You seem to be taking this very calmly, is all."**

"**There is no point in posing unreasoning concern in such matters. It is how I was trained."**

**Horatio turned away, disgusted.**

**The rest of the squad approached. Terry looked pale and shaky, but otherwise alright. Kyle shouldered his battle rifle and eyed Gerun appraisingly. "Damn quick moving there, Gerun. That'll come in handy." Inwardly, Horatio choked back a scornful laugh.**

**The Elite inclined his head. "My thanks, Sergeant. Now, as to our next move."**

**Kyle turned to face the tower. "I can't imagine there being many more inside. Even so, we should proceed with caution."**

"**Agreed." The team made their way to the doors of the building. Horatio and Len lagged behind, and the corporal pulled him aside. "He did a good job, Private."**

**Horatio looked away. "I know."**

**Len grabbed his arm with surprising force, and he faced him. "Don't mess this up. Understand? The rest of the squad are willing to put hostilities aside-why can't you?"**

"**You know full well, "said Horatio, his voice trembling with barely concealed rage. **_**Madrigal.**_

**Len stopped, gave him one last look of warning, and kept walking. Terry dropped back to Horatio. "What was that about?"**

"**Nothing."**

* * *

**The quartet of Pelicans rocketed through the racing winds, with a pair of Hornets angling behind them. Inside the dropships were, collectively, ten squads of UNSC Marines, ready for anything.**

_**Except**_**, Captain Tonley mused, **_**an attack on a group of long-defunct insurgents. **_**The officer was strapped into the co-pilot seat of the Pelican. Times were tough and to make sure transport was efficient, most airmen were running skeleton crews.**

**The pilot in question was the oldest serviceman Tonley had seen-around seventy. His hair was white, and blue-green veins looked like knots on his arms. But his hands were quick and sharp-obviously he still had skill. Another mark of desperation-the careful ignorance of age-retirement codes. But experience was irreplaceable.**

**Idly, as the Pelican jerked, encountering some stiff resistance from the winds, Tonley wondered what his story was. He doubted he'd receive an answer if he asked-the old man was a silent bastard. He'd said but two words-"Lifting off." Besides, something in those milky eyes of his suggested that the man had seen some terrible things. And at that age, who wouldn't have?**

**He looked at the mission timer on the inside of his helmet-they should be close by now. Tonley turned to the pilot. "How much longer?"**

**The old man was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, "Not long. About ten to dirt."**

**Tonley nodded his thanks, and unstrapped himself and entered the troop bay. "Alright, boys and girls, LZ is close. Check your gear and get ready for action."**

"**Hoo-rah" came the reply, and the marines immediately twisted in their seats, making last-minute adjustments. Tonley returned to his seat, and prepped his own equipment.**

**In a few minutes they dropped through the clouds, and the group of aircraft slowly descended. Out of the Pelican's window, Tonley could see a haphazard collection of grey buildings, surrounded by a fence. The surface of the ground was complete slate-no wonder it had escaped attention. But the buildings were very messy-most of it looked constructed from plastacrete and duracrete. Others were made from scrapped materials.**

**Tonley squinted. "Is that a landing zone?"**

**The pilot shook his head. "No. Just a space cleared."**

**As they came closer, Tonley could pick out individual edifices. There were maintenance sheds, workshops, and a makeshift barracks. It was a complete military installation. **_**And we let it grow under our noses? Pathetic.**_

**The pilot's tired eyes slid over the various buildings, then suddenly became wide. Tonley looked at him. "Something wrong?"**

**The pilot frowned. "That reactor there. I recognise it." He indicated a square building with blue cylindrical smokestacks.**

"**You do?" Even though it was a completely innocuous matter, Tonley felt a shiver up his spine.**

"**Yeah. It's an old version."**

"**Nothing new about that, "said Tonley. "Insurrectionists'll use anything they can get their hands on."**

"**But that's not it." A note of anger, of bewilderment, had entered the pilot's voice. "It's from a ship. I recognise the seal on it. A ship I thought had…" A few seconds of silence passed. "Don't worry about it. I'm probably wrong."**

**Tonley took the opportunity to ask, "What's your name?"**

"**Alexander."**

"**Is that your first or last name?"**

**The ancient pilot looked at the captain and, predictably, said nothing.**

"**Hey, "said Tonley, squinting at the top of a particularly large building, "what's that?"**

* * *

"**Can you hack it?" Kyle asked Ollie.**

**The tech rubbed his hands. "Sure as shooting, sir." He rummaged through his satchel, and removed a spoofer. Attaching it to the massive door, he tapped a few keys and stood back. The twin steel doors groaned as hundreds of electrical "bugs" infested through the locking system, and slowly pulled apart. Lazu, who was on point, aimed his plasma pistol through the shadowed portal. "I see nothing."**

**Kyle waved his men forward. "Advance in double file. Stay sharp." Cautiously, the team made their way inside.**

**The interior had the look of a big warehouse. Large packing crates, placed one atop another, were stacked vertically, creating a room of pillars. At the far end, a flight of metal stairs led upwards. A few side doors led to offices and other antechambers. Each corridor was about fifty paces in width. Horatio immediately didn't like it-an entire legion of enemies could be hunkered down in this room. The hairs on his scalp prickled. His teammates shifted uneasily as well.**

**The room was silent. Nothing moved, and that added to the feeling of menace.**

**Gerun shook his head, and cursed silently in his native language. "Would that we had an infiltrator. This place reeks of an ambush."**

**Kyle peered amongst the boxes. "I don't see anything. But we'd be idiots to chance going through there. I want a solid wall on our flank. Let's move through that way." He indicated the path to the utmost left, where doors lined the wall. "Then ascend the stairs. Move it."**

**In single file the nine-strong team proceeded along the path. Doors that lay ajar gave view to bare rooms, with plaster, metal and light fittings the prominent decoration. Len theorised they had been for yet more storage, but it was impossible to know. Horatio aimed his rifle down the next corridor on his right. "Clear." The group kept moving.**

**As they reached the halfway point, the ambush struck.**

**A hail of gunfire poured from their right flank, and five rebels popped up from a tangle of steel beams and heating coils, firing their rifles. The Elites fortunately took the brunt of the enfilade, but the marines weren't so lucky. Len roared with pain as two rounds caught him in the arm, and Kyle received a bullet to his right thigh, dropping him to his knees with an agonized grunt. The pair were pulled away by their comrades as bullets raked their position. Horatio aimed his rifle around the corner and fired, but to no effect. He swung a gaze to Gerun, who crouched behind the next crate. "Do something!"**

**The Elite grinned maniacally, primed a plasma grenade and threw it. Three seconds later it detonated, taking four of the enemy fire team with it. Lazu went down the corridor to finish off the last rebel. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.**

"_**KYLE!"**_** a voice rang out, and the team swung their gaze to the source of the voice. It could be found on the stairwell.**

**The old man in fatigues, who wore a captain's bars, stood on the landing, legs planted defiantly. In his still-muscled arms he held a Jackhammer rocket launcher. Within a heartbeat he pulled the trigger and a warhead whooshed towards them. Horatio's eyes widened as he saw the rocket heading straight for him.**

**With no time to think, Lazu, legs pumping, tackled him sideways, sending the pair skidding along the floor. This courageous act had brought Lazu too close to the blast, however. **

**The rocket hit the stack and blew a sizeable hole in it, and sent Lazu flipping through the air end over end, until he hit the wall and bounced off. The Elite lay motionless, his shields sparking and blood oozing from a nasty chest wound.**

**With a snarl of fury Kyle fired his rifle at the figure on the stairs, until he ran dry. The man fled upward, and disappeared from sight.**

**Lazu came awake, groaning in pain. Kyle knelt, breathing deeply, and then turned his gaze to Horatio. "Break out the med-kit, Horatio. See if Lazu's alright."**

**Still in shock from what had happened, Horatio sat unmoving. Kyle's temper snapped. "Do it, Marine!" he snarled. Horatio snapped out of it and fumbled for the med-kit.**

**The other members of the squad came together. Horatio tossed Len and Kyle canisters of biofoam, and then attended to Lazu. The Elite had broken ribs and internal bleeding, but he was going to be OK. Suddenly his eyes flickered open.**

**Horatio cast his gaze downwards. "Hey. You alright?"**

**The Elite's voice was soft, and strangely childlike-in a formidable way. "I will live. And you?"**

"**I'll be fine." After a moment he sighed and said reluctantly, "Thanks."**

**Lazu's mandibles cracked into a smile, and he coughed up purple blood. "We are comrades, are we not?" Then he sank back into unconsciousness.**

**After a moment the squad reassembled. Kyle turned to Horatio. "How's Lazu?"**

**The Marine shrugged his shoulders. "He's bleeding but he'll be fine."**

"**Good. Dasa, Gerun, can you carry him? None of us are strong enough to carry him." The pair acceded with nods. "Let's keep going upward. We need to reach that transport before that man does."**

"**Who was he, Sarge?" Terry interjected. "He called out your name."**

**Kyle glared at Terry, and said shortly, "No-one."**

"**He was wearing captain's bars. Is he someone from Admiral Cole's battle group? That's where you started, anyhow-"**

"**I got no idea who the hell that was, Private! Now shut your face! Is that clear?"**

**Terry subsided. "Yes sir."**

**Kyle gave him one last glare and then continued. "As I was saying, we need to get that transport, else we're stuck here. Let's move people."**

**The group resumed their progress.**

**After some climbing, which was prolonged due to Lazu's incapacitation, they reached a small attic-like room. The only way out was a trapdoor in the roof, which hung low. But it was sealed by a panel. Welded on, by the looks of it. Ollie went to inspect it, and scowled. "Christ. This thing's **_**titanium. **_**How'd they get that?"**

"**Doesn't matter, "Kyle interrupted. "Xav?"**

"**On it." The Japanese soldier reached into his sack and extricated a miniature satchel charge. He stuck it on the panel, pushed the ignition handle and stepped back quickly. The charge detonated, spraying everyone with debris. But when the smoke cleared, the panel remained. "Damnit."**

**Kyle punched the wall in frustration. "Haven't you got anything bigger?"**

"**Yeah, I do, "Xavier shot back. "But it'd take us out as well-"**

"**Enough of this foolishness, "growled Dasa. He let go of Lazu's legs, and strode over to the panel. With a grunt, and a snort, the Elite**_** ripped**_** the panel off the wall. Dasa dropped the square of metal and clambered upward, fuel rod gun rattling.**

**No-one spoke. Then Len whistled in amazement and followed. The rest of the squad followed, Gerun pulling Lazu up by the scruff of his neck.**

**The top of the building was being completely subjected to the frenzied weather-the wind screamed in their ears and snow pelted their visors like raindrops. At the other end of the roof, the dilapidated transport stood. Its engines were active. The access ramp was open, and a figure climbed out.**

**It was the old man. Upon noticing the soldiers, he scowled and spat. "You bastards just won't leave me alone, will you?"**

**Kyle stepped forward, his voice terse. "What are you doing here?"**

**The man's eyes shifted to the sergeant. "Private Kyle. Or is it Sergeant, now? I'm surprised you've lasted this long. I thought you'd be enjoying your winter years in peace." The man barked a short, bitter laugh. "But duty calls, doesn't it?"**

"**That it does. And my duty is to stamp out any rebellion, and trading with the Brutes."**

**The man became evasive-his eyes flickered. "So, you found out about that."**

"**Yep. And now, I'm arresting you for consorting with the Insurrectionists."**

"**Oh, don't be so naïve, Kyle, "the old man snapped. "You won't catch me today nor any other day. But keep your eyes open. We might see each other sooner than you think." The man bolted into the troop bay.**

"**Stop him!" Kyle thundered. The group opened fire and the ship shuddered as it took damage. But it held, and the back hatch closed. It wobbled, and took flight into the air, heading east. **

**Then Horatio noticed something left behind. It was square, and about the size of a backpack. "Xavier, what's that?"**

**The demolition expert went over to the object, and he went very still. The team walked over. "Well?"**

"**It's a bomb, "Xavier said in a choked voice.**

**Everyone collectively reeled back. Kyle found his voice first. "Can you-"**

"**It's timer is already active, "Xavier snapped. "And I can't defuse it. I don't have the right tools. Or time." The bomb's timer read 1:50, and was counting steadily down.**

"**Then we have to get out of here, "Kyle said decisively.**

**Xavier removed his helmet and stared at his sergeant. "This bomb's got enough C-12 in it to turn the entire base to smithereens. We won't make it out in time."**

**As soon as he finished with those words, six blots appeared from the clouds. Four Pelicans and two Hornets accelerated their engines and sped towards them.**

**Kyle snapped out orders. "Len, set off the flare! Dasa, Gerun, set off some plasma grenades, we need those ships to see us. Hell, wave your sword in the air. Terry, Ollie, get Lazu ready for transport." Kyle keyed his radio. "**_**Pelican dropships, if you can hear us, please respond. There are UNSC marines and Elite commandos on top of the main building. I repeat, we're on top of the main building. We need extraction now!"**_

**A pilot's voice came over the radio. **_**"We read you, marine. Approaching for extract. What's the rush, anyway?"**_

"_**We've got a bomb here. It's gonna blow the entire base. I'd advise you get the other ships out of here."**_

"_**Roger that. Hang tight, we're inbound."**_

**The bomb's timer now read 1:00. The group silently willed on the dropship. Behind it, the other ships pulled up, and around.**

**Eventually the Pelican, jets roaring, manoevred itself over the building. The back ramp opened, revealing a crush of confused marines. Evidently they'd expected to be deployed for fighting. **_**Sorry we cancelled the party.**_

"**In, in, in!" Kyle said urgently. The bomb read :40 now. The hatch closed, and the dropship rocketed away.**

**Thirty seconds later the bomb exploded, sending a white torus of flame billowing outwards, devouring buildings like an apocalyptic demon.**

**Horatio's head fell against the back wall and he closed his eyes. They'd made it. Beside him, Kyle held his head in his hands. "I'm getting too old for this shit."**

**Now that the mission was over, Horatio's thoughts turned to the so-called "practice mission." Had HighCom known all along? Did somebody want the squad dead? Or the alliance destabilised? He could think of no shortage of contenders for that aim. He looked at his sergeant. "You think Hood knew about what happened?"**

**Kyle swung a bleary gaze to Horatio. "He better not have."**

**Horatio voiced one of his private questions. "Do you think someone wants us dead?"**

**Kyle sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know, Horatio. But times are grim and there aren't many we can trust. But I think the answer will be found in this alliance. God knows the Elites are more honorable than most humans."**

**Horatio snorted-he couldn't help himself. Kyle's brows narrowed. "Yes?"**

"**Nothing." After a few seconds, he asked yet another question. "Who was that man?"**

**Kyle was silent; for a moment Horatio thought he wouldn't answer. Then-**

"**Someone who's' supposed to be dead."**


	6. Chapter 6

*Chapter Five

15th of October, 2553

Aboard Pelican Dropship

Earth

What with the fight against the rebels, and the exhaustion that ensued, Horatio couldn't keep his eyes open. His vision blurred, and the dim red light of the Pelican's troop bay dimmed, and faded away. Comforting darkness wrapped around him, and he relaxed his shoulders.

And then he dreamed again.

_He stood once again beside the small stream. The sun was still veiled behind an alabaster sky. This time, small petals, strewn along the water's rippling surface, glided along it's length, like small boats. He knelt, and dipped his fingers into the water._

_It was freezing cold. He quickly withdrew them, and as the clouds drew back momentarily, he saw the sun glint off something in the distance._

_Meandering slowly, Horatio walked towards the sun-lit object. The grass was taller than it had been last time-almost knee-high. The plain was covered in it, and the vast array of grass swayed in time to the wind. Strangely, chunks of granite littered the plain, as if they had descended from the sky. After a few minutes he approached the object._

_Whatever it was, it had been damaged-smoke curled from it in a black ribbon. It was triangular, and had squarish fins-the sheen on them was not unlike the stream he had left behind. Beneath it, a tatter of wires and other circuitry sprawled, like the intestines of an eviscerated seal. He poked it with his foot._

_The machine came to life immediately-but not in attack. Instead, a humming was heard, and a small photo-eye popped out, flashing blue. It centered on Horatio, and then retracted. Then it began to talk-in fragmented sentences._

"_-containment failure-"_

"_-recording matrix activated-"_

"_-locations of-of colony worlds must be purged; self-destruct mechanisms in countdown mode-"_

"_-LF. Xx 3273 is achieving biological dominance in-"_

_Then it failed, with a small explosion of sparks. Horatio knelt, wondering if Ollie could have fixed it._

_He felt a presence then-a shifting of the air, barely perceptible. He didn't know what it was, but it didn't seem friendly. He found a sizeable piece of granite, and hid behind it, peering just around it._

_The two white men were standing there. It was as if they'd appeared from thin air. Standing over the broken machine, they conversed in low voices. Horatio strained to hear._

"_Our situation is fraught. Even you must see that now. The enemy is unending, and no matter how many we burn, the Mind simply chooses more."_

"_Not true. Systems have been left barren, it is true, but in so doing, we leave nothing for it to salvage. This war will not come without cost, but it is winnable."_

"_You make offerings at the altar of blind faith. But I warn you, clarity will arrive one day-and it shall be hard, mark my words."_

"_We shall see."_

"_Indeed."_

_Horatio ducked back behind the rock, as the pair turned in his direction. But they hadn't seen him. They were looking at someone else._

_He made to turn, but iron words grated in his ear. "Do nothing foolish."_

_The pair of white men drew what looked like swords of fire from unseen sheaths at their belts. "Leave us be, Lord. We are as the truth, and only a fool ignores the lessons of history." Horatio frowned; based on what he had heard so far, this did not sound like the same subject on which the pair had discussed earlier._

"_You are a wound. You deliver pain. Unacceptable. We are not ones to feel pain." The shapeless presence behind him moved with lightning speed._

_A flash of green was all he saw, and then the two were lying spread-eagled on the ground, crimson blood pooling beneath them. From the looks of it, they had not even gotten the chance to raise their weapons. Horatio looked around for their killer, but saw nothing but grass._

_Then it whispered in his ear._

"_Go away."_

He awoke with a start, breathing heavily. A nameless marine seated next to him cocked his head in question. Horatio waved a hand dismissively. _I'm fine._

Inwardly, he was shaking. It had now been twice he had visited that tranquil plain-and the dreams had been so vivid. He remembered feeling the cold water, smelling the bitter tang of the blood. What did it all mean?

He had no choice but to dismiss it. Telling the squad about some crazy dreams would earn him a straight-up psych exam. Even with that resolution, he couldn't easily dismiss a nagging bad feeling.

The Pelican rocked, and Horatio felt the ship descend. They must be close to HighCom. Horatio both looked forward to, and dreaded, the inevitable clash to come. The Elite command would be furious at what they would see as an attempt to get their warriors killed on purpose. Diplomacy could only take you so far, he knew. Soon, the humans would have to back up their claims. Disdainful as he was of the alliance, Horatio knew they needed it.

He felt a touch on his shoulder; he turned, to see the nameless marine facing him. He didn't have a helmet, allowing Horatio to view his pale features and cropped red hair. "Yeah?"

The marine swallowed. "Sorry. It's just that…are you Horatio Zerba? From Sergeant Kyle's squad?"

Horatio grunted his assent. "Why?"

The marine offered a shy smile. "I'm Private Benson. I just enlisted. I've been hearing nothing but stories since I got here-"

"About what?"

"You guys, of course. Your squad. Didn't you know? You guys are complete legends in the Corps-"

Horatio stared disbelievingly at the recruit. "What? Can't be. We've been tied to a bloody rut for ages-"

Benson chuckled. "Maybe so, but you guys made quite an impression wherever you went. Jericho VII, the Theftian Campaigns, Paris IV, Ballast-"

Horatio cut him off for the third time. "Yeah, well, don't believe everything you hear, kid." He surveyed Benson again-he couldn't have been more than twenty years old. _Just how many others like him are in this ship? _"Only reason we made it so far is keeping our heads down, and that's how we like it. Don't go glory-hunting, Private. You'll live longer." He turned away.

The pasty private seemed a bit deflated, but he regained his enthusiasm quickly. "I guess we'll see it first-hand, then."

That brought Horatio's head around. "How's that?"

Benson frowned. "You don't know? It's not just the Elite partnership you've got going for you. Command needs experienced hands out in the field, so a whole bunch of recruits is heading with you, wherever that is. Like we're attached."

Horatio resisted the urge to scream. Just how many secret plans and projects were pushing them around? He intended to speak to Kyle about this. The old man shouldn't be keeping so much info to himself.

There was a jolt, and Horatio realised that they'd landed. The back hatch opened, sending snow and blinding white light into the compartment. The marines began to unstrap themselves from the harnesses. Horatio and the squad, being veterans, were the first out. The Elites weren't far behind. In the interim, Lazu had regained consciousness.

A small party waited for them. Lord Hood, his officers, R'tas Vadum, the Arbiter and the Field Masters among them. They all looked tense, as if a fight was about to break out. Horatio's hand strayed to his sidearm. Maybe that thought wasn't totally erroneous. He noticed that, at seeing Lazu's wounds, which were forcing him to walk using a support staff, R'tas Vadum's eyes filled with anger.

Kyle stepped up in front of Lord Hood. "Sir." His voice was as cold as the snow that fell around them, speckling their fatigues.

Lord Hood nodded uncomfortably. "Sergeant. Glad to see that you made it. Rest assured, I didn't know what was going on-"

"With respect, sir, your "not knowing" nearly got all my men killed." He cast his eyes over his squad behind him, looking at Len and Terry who bore wounds, and then jabbed a finger at the Elites. "And them too."

Hood bowed his head in apology. "I know, Sergeant. The one who ordered this insertion will be severely punished." With that, he nodded to someone behind him.

A pair of Marine MP's brought up a wizened man in ONI uniform, his hands bound with flex-cuffs. His eyes were blazing with anger. "You won't get away with this, Hood."

"Oh, I think I will, "said Hood tartly. "You spooks have been given plenty of license in the past, but those days are over. _I_ am in charge of the UNSC, and _I_ won't tolerate your going behind my back. And nor will the Elites."

The ONI man spat at Hood's feet. "You need us, Hood, like it or not. We're far more valuable than a couple of worthless grunts like these-"

Kyle's fist shot out and hammered the man in the face, dropping him where he stood. The sergeant stood over him, breathing heavily. "The next time you play games with us, "he told him, "do it like a man, you weasel." His gaze returned to Hood, who looked back with admiration. "Permission to be dismissed."

Hood nodded, and waved a hand. "Granted." The squad ambled off towards the barracks. Just then, however, R'tas' hand shot out and grabbed Kyle by his lapels. Horatio shouted in alarm, and reached for his rifle. The rest of the squad did the same, except for Len, who stood back, arms folded and his lips set in a razor-thin line. The MPs closed in, but the Elite officers went for their weapons as well. The marine regulars from the Pelicans watched uneasily. Hood looked on, eyes narrowed.

The Shipmaster said to Kyle, loud enough for all to hear, "It is that treacherous snake's fault that sent you and your soldiers into the lion's den. But Lazu is wounded-you must claim culpability in this matter. The spilling of Sangheili blood cannot go unanswered." He dropped Kyle to the ground, and activated his sword. "I challenge you to a duel."

There was a sharp intake of breath from Hood. "Shipmaster, we don't allow duels in the UNSC. Stand down-we're all allies here."

Urit Gebur', the outspoken Elite that had criticised Hood at the meeting, pointed a finger at him. "Stay out of this, human. This involves Sangheili honour. It is not your affair."

"Yeah? Well that's our sergeant you're threatening there." Terry leapt forward, but Urit clipped him with a lightning-fast blow. The Elite grunted his satisfaction, but then frowned and examined his arm. There was a knife stuck in it. On the ground, Terry grinned at him. Urit growled and started forward, but there was the noise of someone clearing his throat. It was Kyle. Everyone turned to him.

Kyle faced R'tas, his voice devoid of emotion. "I know that wounding is a grave dishonour to Elites. And I am sorry. But this alliance isn't going to be fractured over stubborn tradition." His voice stayed firm. "Too many lives depend on it, Shipmaster. And if you-or anybody else-tries to ruin it, you'll have to answer to me. While a confrontation might be desired by most of you-" he glanced at Urit, the MPs and the marines-"there's no point. You can fight-and then later you'll curse yourselves for not listening."

His words hung in the air.

After a moment, R'tas barked a laugh, and gave Kyle what Horatio supposed was a smile. "Cautious words, but wise ones. You speak well, Sergeant Kyle-I can see I was wrong. You are a competent leader, and Lazu's wounding was not your fault." He sheathed the sword. "I suggest we retire. Our warriors are sorely tired."

Hood breathed a sigh of relief. "Agreed. MPs, stand down. Marines, dismissed." The regulars moved off, speaking animatedly about what had transpired. The Elites put away their weapons. The tension had passed.

Urit pulled out the knife, and tossed it back to Terry contemptuously, wiping away the blood. "The drawing of a weapon demands that blood be spilled, Shipmaster. To sheath it without doing so is sacrilege."

R'tas scoffed. "Have you not listened, Urit? It is tradition that nearly led to a battle right here. Learn to nurture a faith in prudence-it may yet save your life." He turned away, beckoning to his officers. What he did not notice was the dark look that Urit directed at his back.

* * *

"We will be leaving here in three days."

Hood looked at the Arbiter, a puzzled look on his face. "Are you certain that is a good idea? We only had one test. More time has to be invested in this-"

"The actions of the soldiers sent on the mission have told us enough. They possess extreme combat skills. I have convinced R'tas of this. In any case, we cannot afford to wait here any longer-our flagship is needed on the frontier, not to mention the warriors it carries." He paused, and then asked, "Have your commanders liased with our own?"

Hood nodded. "We have enough strategic data to form new plans. My thanks."

Arbiter sighed, in a melancholy way. "Good, good." He looked out beyond the base to the bleak, lifeless plain surrounding it. "All is not well with the Sangheili. Tensions fester and we struggle to assert our authority. There are those who do not wish to become partnered with your race. They believe we are better off keeping to ourselves."

Hood ran a hand down his haggard face. "We have our dissidents too. But I won't be swayed. Joining forces is the best hope we have."

"Indeed." The Arbiter set his hands on his hips, and looked away. "Yet, if only _he_ were here…."

_If only._

_Three days later_

Benson spat out a mouthful of mud, and wriggled his way through the freezing muck, under the razor wire. Several other unfortunates were alongside him, dripping and exhausted. Bullets zinged over their heads.

Even though this was just a training exercise, he was scared.

The squad, along with a few other experienced campaigners, were putting the new recruits through their paces. Benson could tell they weren't happy about it. Unlike the Spartans, of whom he'd heard so much about, the squad wasn't a group of near-mythical figures, fighting on one planet one day and then disappearing just as quickly. They were marines, and their apparent fame grated on them like a rasp.

_Mind on the job, idiot!_ He made it to the end of the mud and razor wire, and then got to his feet-only to slip and fall down. He heard sniggers behind him, but he ignored it and tackled the next part of the course; the plasma coil labyrinth.

He entered a maze of hissing ducts and pipes, with clouds of blue and purple everywhere. The purpose of this part was for recruits to focus on the mission, and not on their environment. With the help of Elite engineers, they'd installed it in less than two days.

Suddenly he came to a dead end. Which way did he go now? He turned, only to find a solid wall of piping. He was effectively trapped. Stifling his panic, he remembered what the drill sergeant had told him.

"_Use your head. When you have nowhere to go, it's mind over matter. Never mind the rifle in your hands, or the armour you're wearing. The brain is a soldier's most effective weapon. Trust me when I say this, because it can mean the difference between life or death."_

He slowed his breathing, and finally noticed a curtain of wires. He pushed his way through, and managed to navigate the rest of the maze easily.

Making his way into daylight, he saw the wooden tower that signified the end of the course. Only a short dash, then up the ladder and he'd be done. Another recruit exited the maze, and they started off together.

He heard a _phoomph_, and then a whistling noise. It could mean only one thing. "Claymores!" he shouted, and threw himself down.

A deafening crack assaulted his ears, and he pushed down lower into the mud. When the smoke cleared, he sat up and patted himself down. Not a scratch.

He heard a groan, and saw the other recruit lying on the ground, riddled with TTR. It was too late to save him. Benson got up, and ran for the tower.

He ascended the ladder, and made it to the top. He grinned through the dried mud on his face. He'd made it.

"_PRIVATE BENSON, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"_

Benson looked down, to see the terrifying form of Sergeant Kyle. A real hard-ass, was the current byword going around. If Horatio and the rest were tough as nails, this guy was made of Titanium-A and was just as warm.

"_GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE, ON THE DOUBLE!"_

Benson, feeling like a man going to the firing squad, slid down the ladder and stood penitently in front of The Sarge. "Sir!"

The man's eyes bulged as he poured his fury onto Benson. "I've been serving in this Corps for twenty-five years of my goddamned life and I have never seen such an act of cowardice! Let me tell you son, you can be brainless, armless, legless and not know which fucking way is up, but I don't care how small your brain is, you _never leave a man behind!_ If you'd done this on a battlefield, Private, that man you left behind would have been caught by the Jackals, skinned and fucking _roasted!_ Now, give me fifty push-ups and don't ever let me see you do that again, or I will take a Spiker and give you a colonoscopy with it!"

Shattered, Benson dropped to the cold ground and began his punishment, shouting out the numbers loudly. While Kyle, the squad and a few other recruits watched, Benson reflected on how he'd ended up here.

It wasn't as if he'd been conscripted. His parents, who had lost two other children, their parents and several cousins, aunts and uncles to the Covenant, would never have let the UNSC take him. They'd have sooner gone to jail then let their only son be sent to war.

Which was why signing up had been so hard. His parents had come from a small Outer Colony world called Torus, which had an almost hereditary disdain for the UNSC. It had suffered Insurrectionist and Covenant attacks, with little help from the UNSC. Having to run to them for help when the world was finally glassed and been a hard burden for them to bear.

But Benson had been fascinated by it. Becoming a soldier, a protector, was something he'd dreamed of for years. When he'd broken the news to them, they'd been horrified and immediately forbade it. Even though the war had been over for two months. But he wasn't going to be stopped, and one night, he slipped away.

He'd no idea if they still lived in Poland, or if they still loved him at all. But this was for all their sakes. He'd achieve his dream, prove himself to his parents and help safeguard humanity.

_And nothing's gonna stop me._

* * *

Urit Gebur' deactivated the dropship's shields so it could fit into its docking node. Furtively, he shut down the engines and exited the ship. He padded down the length of the deck and went through a door.

After some time he arrived at the ship's armoury. Innumerable purple and green crates lined the walls, brimming with weapons, equipment and other devices. There was a small team of Elites there, paying no attention to him and stocking the weapons the humans had given them as a show of good faith. "Nukes", they called them. In return, the Elites had given them the software for plasma focusing technology. It would not be long before the degenerate primates had their plasma weaponry online and ready to outfit their vessels with.

_Blasphemy, _Urit snarled inwardly. _These technologies were gifts from the Forerunners. That these brutish savages have attained them galls me. _

_Well, no more shall I sit idly by while Vadum' and his lackeys bring the Sangheili to rack and ruin, by sealing pacts with the humans. No more._

His plasma rifle whined, and the bolts of red-hot energy took down the small Elite team, spilling maroon blood onto the deck. _You chose your path, brothers. Rot in the Seven Hells. _He pulled a hover-trolley off the rack, and begun loading the nuclear devices onto it. When he had done that, he squeezed as many other boxes of firearms as he could onto the trolley, then set off awkwardly.

He eased the dropship out of the hangar, and pulled it upwards into space. Grey skies turned to glistening black, studded with white points. He keyed his communicator. "This is Urit Gebur'. I have the weapons. Respond."

A coarse voice answered. _"We read you. Send co-ordinates to the station."_

"Roger." He tapped some buttons.

"_We have them. Making headway now. Rendezvous with us there."_

"As you wish." The ship hurtled through the black, towards the newly arrived object.

* * *

Len snorted a laugh, and turned to his squadmates. "I think we have a winner for most clumsy recruit." He pointed at Benson, puffing in the snow while Kyle stood over him. "Can't believe he forgot the Golden Rule. Why, I remember my first day. Drill sergeant, what was his name? Reimers. Threatened to tear me a new one. My God, he made me his bitch-"

"Alright, enough, "Ollie groaned. He was aiming his gun at a distant target, firing occasionally. "I'm so sick of your war stories."

Len grinned, and tossed a grenade from hand to hand. He then threw it into the air over the obstacle course, sending shrapnel pelting down. "Just jealous, Ollie. 'Cause the only story you got is about getting caught spray-painting that El-Tee's helmet pink-"

Horatio, perched atop a beam of wood, threw a rock at Len. "If I remember, you were the one helping him, Len. Crucial detail, you think?"

Over the loud guffaws of the rest of the squad, who were atop a small hill off to one side of the course, Horatio returned his attention to Kyle and Benson. Kyle was still filthy about the fake mission, but had cheered up when he'd had the chance to train the new recruits. Three days and already they were terrified. But such terror was good for them; it would drive the lessons home, and one day the tough love would pay off.

He was less happy, however, about his own duties. The watch post had stopped, thankfully, but now he had rifle practice, physical training, marksman training-all the painful activities he had long ago left behind-gladly. He wasn't suffering the rigours of training, at least-but he still didn't like it. Kyle had only asked for one experienced assistant-and who had been unlucky enough to draw the short straw? When he'd asked his sergeant why, he had brusquely pointed to a pile of practice rifles and stomped away.

Worst of all, the kid Benson was among his marksmen protégés. A shy, gawky kind of person, he'd copped a lot of crap from his squadmates, and was Kyle's whipping boy in the drills. Yet there was a hidden intensity about him; he obviously had a good reason for being in the Corps-else why would this frail-looking kid have signed up? Still, he was annoying, and seemed to be seeking a sense of camaraderie with him-and that Horatio didn't want.

Benson finished his push-ups, and Kyle waved him on. Then he shouted up at them, "Get over here, girls. We got stuff to discuss." The group got up and headed over to their sergeant.

Kyle rubbed his weathered face, a sour look on his face. "Right then, listen up. Command's got a new mission for us-and it's real, "he said, seeing the expressions on the faces of his men, "so put the kiddy stuff away. Let's head to the ops centre."

The six trudged their way through the snow. Horatio walked alongside Len. "You got any info for us this time?"

The corporal spat into the snow. "Nope. This is all new to me."

_Maybe it is real, _Horatio thought.

When they pushed their way though the double doors, things took a serious turn. The room was filled with personnel and equipment. A massive screen had been set up, showing footage (transmitted from surveillance drones and satellites) of an orbital station-the _Lima_. A constant stream of data etched itself across the screen. Lord Hood, R'tas Vadum, the Arbiter and their attendant officers. Hood beckoned Kyle over as soon as he saw them. "Sergeant, glad you could make it. Come have a look at this." He stepped over to the screen.

On closer inspection, an object could be made out, attached to the orbital. It was a Covenant-_Sangheili_-ship, docked next to the umbilical. It was not, however, the _Shadow of Intent._

Kyle frowned as he looked at the ship. "What's the story, sir?"

Hood cleared his throat. "About two hours ago, this ship arrived insystem. We hailed it, but received no response."

"Flood?" Len asked in a hushed voice.

Hood shook his head. "No. We didn't detect any signs of biological growth on the ship's hull. Nonetheless, we have no way of telling if it's friendly or not. Anyway, it then proceeded to dock on the _Lima._ The orbital's AI couldn't be contacted either-nor any personnel."

"Why not send a ship to investigate?"

Hood looked grim. "If it's a Brute vessel, then we don't have anything to challenge them, and _Shadow of Intent_'s plasma reactor is in shakedown mode. No chance of getting it online for another few days. I've recalled warships from the Bandiko System, but they'll take at least two days to arrive. Shipmaster?"

R'tas Vadum stepped forward. "Our ship's translation Oracle identified this as the _Obdurate Resistance._ The ship's ownership changed hands several times-who knows who commands it? However, we were the last to control it."

"Any data on that ship's activity?" Hood asked.

"Participated in the Battle of The Ark, suffered crippling damage-we had to send it through the portal for repairs. It would have taken too long to refit its weapons systems, so we used it as a reconnaissance vessel. It has not returned to any of our holdings for forty units-three months in your terms. We are, therefore, in consternation."

Kyle broke into the conversation. "So why do you need us?"

Hood looked guilty. "If it is a hostile vessel, then it needs to be destroyed as quickly as possible. Before it discovers any of our new protocols and missions-some crucial information was stored on the _Lima._ We'll set up a perimeter with the ships we have-and that's where you come in."

"Your team will take a Pelican and go EVA-and find a way into the station. Once there, gather intel and report back to us. If there are Elites, all well and good-if not, then do what you can. We'll blow it to pieces."

Kyle folded his arms. "Another dangerous mission, sir?"

Hood sighed. "I'm afraid so, Sergeant."

Kyle suddenly grinned. "I wouldn't have it any other way. When do we move?"

"At 1630. You have two hours to get ready. Report to the armoury-bring the usual equipment for this op. The Elites will be joining you again of course. Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes sir?"

"Our recruits could use some on-the-job training. Take one with you-the experience will do that person good. Do you have someone in mind?"

Kyle shot a wicked look at Horatio before replying, "Private Benson, sir."

"Excellent. In fact, I believe he's already had his specs on zero-gee combat-so he won't need a babysitter. Dismissed, Sergeant."

The marines moved out, as Hood returned his attention to the screen and his officers. Horatio asked Kyle in a voice of deceptive calm, "Why Benson?"

The Sarge chuckled and slugged him in the shoulder. "Just to piss you off. Besides, you heard Hood-he knows the ropes on a zero-gee op."

"He's not experienced, "Horatio argued. "He's never seen combat-"

"He's coming, "said Kyle.

And that was that.

* * *

The Pelican rocketed into space, its thrusters blaring. The blue-white shape of Earth glowed beneath them. Horatio, his head once again sealed in the airtight black helmet, made the twelfth safety check since leaving the ground. On a mission where the slightest mistake could mean certain death, there was no such thing as too much preparation.

The Elites had brought their own strange equipment with them, now wearing a new kind of armour-a combat harness for pilots, or so he'd been told. Their helmets had thinner eye pieces, larger mandible guards and a flattened top. The chest cage featured an I-shaped centrepiece with blue V's running down the middle. Their weapons, technological wonders that they were, remained unchanged.

The marines weren't so lucky. Their usually compact weapons were encased in shock absorbing molds, making them heavier, bigger and far more unwieldy. But at least the recoil wouldn't send the weapons spinning out of their hands. They were also wearing thruster packs and specialized magnetic boots.

Benson had slotted easily into the team, donning his zero-gee gear as quickly as anyone else. However, no-one had said anything to him, barring a few terse commands from Kyle. Horatio suspected that wouldn't change-the recruit would have to make it on his own, unless he really needed help.

They rounded the planet, until the _Lima_ came into view on the view screen. The blue-lack form of the Covenant ship was situated in the main docking node, FFG-225. Unlike the UNSC's ships, this vessel was too large, and as a consequence was forced to dock sideways. Several tubular umbilical were attached to the ship's hull, where the hangar bay would be.

Kyle keyed his radio. _"What've you got for us, El-Tee?"_

"_Umbilicals are blocked. No chance of getting through that way. Worse, the hangar bay doors are locked-sure as hell can't fly in. You got any data spikes?"_

"_Plenty of them."_

"_Right. I'll drop you off, and you can hack your way in. Don't worry-the bay's atmosphere will seal itself. Just don't blow away."_

"_Got it. How close can you take us?"_

"_Sensor range is two hundred metres. Get ready to go in five."_

"_Roger."_

Kyle stood up, his gear creaking. "Alright men, line up. We'll go one at a time. I'll go first. If you start tumbling, set off a beacon-the dropship will make a fly-by. Xavier, prep the charge."

Horatio turned, and faced Benson. The recruit seemed at ease in his gear-but he could sense his nervousness through the helmet. "Stay out of trouble. Alright?"

Benson nodded and gave two thumbs up.

Kyle made his way to the rear hatch. "_Open up."_

The hatch opened with a muted hiss, and the gleaming façade of space could be seen. Kyle bent his knees, and hurled himself into the abyss. Ollie went next, and then it was Horatio's turn. He took a deep breath, and jumped.

He floated through space. Pulling the handle of his pack, he jetted his way forward, following the forms of his teammates. He could see the hangar bay ahead. Behind him, the Pelican's engines roared and it dived back towards the atmosphere.

Suddenly he saw a movement. In the forest of cables and pipes just above the doors, several forms emerged. They were humans-that much he could tell. But they wore no insignia-just the airtight suits and thruster packs common to the group referred to as "space jockeys." The group also carried rifles.

They hadn't seen him, or any of his teammates yet. They floated towards the hangar bay doors.

He keyed his radio. _"Sarge, we've got contacts-"_

The heads of the unknown men snapped around at this transmission.

And, reaching downward, they took aim with their rifles and fired.

_Shit! _He twisted sideways, and the rounds slashed harmlessly past him. Kyle, having caught Horatio's message, unstrapped his own rifle and fired back. The rest of the team did much the same. One drew a steady bead on Xavier, only to have a huge hole blossom on his helmet, courtesy of a brilliant shot from Lazu.

Three of the four men went down easily. The other drew a small data pad from his suit and pressed a button. Len fired a burst, and the man's head bowed. He floated off into the dark.

Kyle turned with some difficulty. _"Status!"_

"_Green._

"_Me too._

"_Same here."_

"_All clear."_

"_I'm fine."_

Benson's voice came over the COM. _"I'm OK."_

"_Seems we've got some more rebels hanging about this planet-and they're wearing our gear. Be careful; there could still be some friendly personnel aboard. Ollie, what did you get when that button was pushed?"_

"_It was a code scrambler, Sarge. No way I can get that door open now."_

"_Damn." _There was a pause. _"Gerun, you got any Covie devices to crack open the door?"_

"_No, Sergeant. At least, none that can penetrate the firewall in place. Your systems are formidable."_

There was another pause. _"Xavier. Prepare a shaped charge-don't go nuts. The rest of you, get above the door, and hold on tight."_

"_Roger that, sir." _The wiry form of Xavier drew several explosives from his satchel. The others swam their way to the hangar door, and, using polarized hooks, latched their way onto the mess of pipes and steel beams. Horatio found himself alongside Benson-again. Through his faceplate, he saw Benson clamping his mouth shut tightly. _"Benson, don't grit your teeth."_

"_How come? Uh, sir."_

Horatio was fast losing patience. _"Because if you don't you'll lose all your teeth in the sonic wave. Now just do it."_

"_Believe him, kid." _Len, on Benson's other side, cut his way into the conversation. _"The first time I was this close to a charge, I lost both my eardrums AND my teeth. In situ cloning is boring as all hell, take it from me."_

"_Shut up you three." _Kyle's voice. _"Xavier?"_

"_Alright…done. Blowing in twenty seconds." _The demolition expert joined his comrades.

"_Ten…"_

"_Three…"_

"_Two…"_

"_One…"_

The charge went off, a silent detonation with lashings of amber fire. Various objects from inside the hangar hurtled out into space. A fierce gale tore at the group, threatening to pull them away. But the hooks held.

When it subsided, they freed themselves, and using their packs, jetted through the smoking hangar bay door. _"The atmosphere's regulated itself-remove your thruster packs. But keep the helmets on."_

The hangar bay was fairly empty after the explosion. A few Longsword fighters and two Pelican dropships were tethered to the floor. Supply crates and other military paraphernalia were lying here and there. There was no-one in sight.

They removed their thruster packs, awkward after spending time in zero-gee. Dasa pointed to a distant bulkhead hatch. "Let us proceed through there-from my study of these stations, that door will lead to a central hub."

Ollie looked interested. "You know about the orbitals?"

Dasa nodded. "Indeed. In the days of the cursed Covenant, I led an assault on several of these stations. On Reach, for example."

"Your data's spot on, "Kyle remarked. "Form up, and stay ready." The group trooped over to the door, and Dasa missed Horatio's venomous look.

* * *

Hood's eyes were fixed on the screen, as the corvette _Baptism of Fire _approached the Covenant ship. The marines were aboard, went the message. It was time for outside contact.

He eyed, on the zoomed-out camera feed, the paltry semi-circle of corvettes, prowlers and singleships surrounding the orbital. He hoped they would be enough, should this turn ugly. The warships were still far off.

Beside him, R'tas Vadum was speaking in low, worried tones with his staff. Hood turned. "Something the matter, Shipmaster?"

The Elite's face, which usually showed all the soft emotion of a granite block, was filled with uncertainty. "The team responsible for storing the nuclear weapons you gave us has not reported in-they are long overdue. This is not like them."

Hood shrugged. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"What is more, "R'tas went on, as if not hearing Hood, "Urit 'Gebur is missing."

That got his attention. "That unruly Elite?"

"Yes."

_Baptism of Fire _was nearly at the ship-

_Obdurate Resistance_ came to life. Lateral lines heated, and red-purple bolts of plasma arced from the vessel's turrets. Racing towards the corvette.

The ship had no chance. It flashed white, and when the plasma dispersed, it was gone.

The breath hissed from Hood in shock.

"We're getting a transmission, "a tech cried out.

The screen blurred, and the smug face of Urit 'Gebur appeared on the screen. Behind him was the bridge of the ship. "Greetings. Humans, traitors, heretics…such a foul gathering. It gives me great relief to be rid of it."

R'tas spoke up, his voice low and dangerous. "What is the meaning of this, Urit? You have fired upon an allied vessel. You are damaging the alliance-"

Urit's eyes filled with rage. "The humans are no allies of mine. Be silent, _'Vadum._ I will listen to you no longer."

"You won't get away with this, renegade. Your blood will run down the halls of that vessel. So I vow."

Urit grinned challengingly. "Is that so? Come, then. Or-perhaps not." He leaned forward.

"The Prophets were our leaders. They are the only ones that can see the path. Like or not, we _need_ them. I will do anything to walk with our gods, and I will do anything to curry their favour. And their…assets."

Hood asked, "What do you mean?"

"I will say nothing to you, human filth, "Urit spat. "I have taken the nukes, and caches of our own weaponry. Not to mention the technology for naval plasma weapons. The Jiralhanae have come, seeking resources in their war-with which I can well sympathise. Of course, I despise such creatures." Religious fervour entered his eyes. "But to possess a part of the wonderful relics of the gods….I will gladly trade with them."

"Oh, and do not even think of boarding this ship or the space station. Else I will incinerate any that approach."

R'tas Vadum sneered, showing a line of razor-sharp teeth. "You cannot remain there forever. Sooner or later, we will find you and make you pay dearly."

Urit sneered back. "I will believe that when I see it." He terminated the link.

Hood turned pale. "The marines. They have no idea what they're getting into."

_We've done it again._


	7. Chapter 7

*Chapter Six

16th of October

Aboard Orbital Station Lima

Earth

Lazu edged his carbine around the corner. The gangly Elite turned back to his companions. "The path lies clear. I will go forth a ways to reconnoitre." He disappeared. The squad waited on the other side of the hatch, which was marked TANGO. Benson stood towards the back, awkwardly clutching his rifle. He'd said nothing since they'd entered the station. The anxiety was already setting in, it seemed.

Kyle sighed, and shouldered his rifle. "I don't expect he'll find anything-this station's bloody deserted. Len, give me the Tacmap."

"Roger."

Kyle's brow furrowed as the green light of the Tacmap flooded his helmet. "According to this, we're not far from Habitat Gamma-from there we can find Central Control. Ollie, can you hack into the system and find the AI?"

Ollie grinned. "Count on it."

"Good."

Lazu returned, shark-like eyes glinting. "Nothing. But there are barricades-and signs of a struggle. Come and see."

"Did you see an elevator?"

The alien shook his head. "No."

Kyle grunted. "Right. Well, let's go-and stay alert." The hatch's proximity light flashed green, and the group proceeded forwards. After a few minutes of passing through nondescript rooms, they turned a corner and found a hatch marked CHECKPOINT H-9. They passed through.

The room beyond was small. Along one wall was a rifle rack-but the slots were all empty. The other wall was a grid of inventory boxes, which were used by personnel to store personal belongings. At the other end of the room was another door, marked COLONNADE-200 METRES.A security booth was stationed next to it, also empty.

There were telltale signs, however. Several scorch marks could be seen, and a pair of black metal barricades were scattered about. A reddish smear could be seen on the door. It was ominous.

Dasa strode over to the scorch marks and studied them. "This wall is made of your Titanium-A. It would take super-heated plasma for it to make a hole like this."

Horatio spoke up sceptically. "Since when do Brutes use plasma weaponry anymore? They're back into using their pre-Covenant tech."

"It's not just Brutes who use plasma weapons, "muttered Kyle. He stared at the smear on the door, then asked Ollie for the Tacmap again. After some consultation, the sergeant grinned. "Excellent. A service tunnel's right past this colonnade-"

"A what?" Gerun asked.

"Colonnade, it's a scenic walk. It's used here for the civilian tours."

"Ornamentation, "the Elite captain mused. "It should have no place on a military installation."

"Oh, I don't know, "Len chimed in. "The bars can be pretty good. Nothing like hydroponic beer." The squad chuckled, including Kyle. But Horatio just scowled. He wasn't ready to be buddy-buddy with these aliens just yet.

Kyle returned to his explanation. "Anyway, past the colonnade-it's actually more of a garden, from this schematic-there's a service tunnel. With a bit of luck, we can squeeze through and we'll come out right in front of Central Control. Let's go." He moved purposefully to the doors, the squad behind him.

None saw the ovoid-shaped probe, blending in with its surroundings, broadcast a visual transmission to a receiver, somewhere else in the station.

* * *

Urit 'Gebur grunted, and clicked his mandibles as he faced the Jiralhanae Shipmaster, Molgerus. His tone bordered on insolence. "You cannot depart as of yet, Shipmaster. We have a few problems."

The savage, fur-covered alien grasped his ceremonial (but still deadly) hammer in his maul-like hands, and narrowed his eyes. "We have delivered the gift, as agreed. The transaction is complete. What holds us here?"

Urit struggled to keep a latch on his temper. What made these animals so thick? "As I stated, Obdurate Resistance is still damaged. It's plasma weapons function, but they lack the proper coolant distribution, as the relevant system cannot be calibrated properly. Without them, charging through that blockade around this orbital would be suicide."

Molgerus' fingers twisted on the hammer's shaft, and he let out a low growl. "Those weaklings lack any sort of firepower to challenge us! We will swipe them aside like flies!"

"They still have nukes, as you full well know!" Urit snapped. "Not to mention their mass driver cannons aboard the other orbitals. Besides, enough concentrated attack will be sure to succeed. What they lack in power they make up for in numbers. Take a look." On the bridge's holographic view screen, they could see a ring of ships, all around them. "What say you now?"

The Jiralhanae's anger subsided, and his grip slackened. "It may be as you say. Why do they not attack us now?"

Urit grinned nastily. "I told them that if they were to come any closer, I would detonate the nukes and engulf us all. That should keep them at bay."

"How much longer before the weapons are ready again?"

Urit shrugged his massive shoulders. "Seven meta-units. Give or take."

Molgerus sighed. "Very well-"

A voice rang out. "Chieftain!"

The pair turned, to see Molgerus' lieutenant, Tralbus, striding up the ramp that led to the command platform. Urit had disliked him on sight-more than usual, since he hated all Jiralhanae. Tralbus' reaction had been identical. Arrogant and smugly convinced of his own importance, Tralbus was a constant thorn in his side.

The jagged saw edges of Tralbus' helmet gleamed in the soft purple light. His green-grey armour was well-polished. Red eyes could be seen through the holes in his helmet. He gruffly placed a fist on his chest, and saluted.

"Report, "said Molgerus.

Tralbus shot an insolent look at Urit, before commencing his report. "Our sensor buoys have detected ten contacts moving through the lower decks of this orbital. A mix of humans and Elites. They progress along the passage marked COLONNADE. I surmise that they entered through the hangar bay somehow-that area has taken damage."

At this, the other members of Molgerus' pack, scattered about the room, turned their heads and snarled. Their hatred of Elites was all-consuming-it was a mark of their collective self-control that they had not yet set upon Urit. Molgerus cocked his head. "Have they discovered anything untoward?"

"Nay, Chieftain. We retrieved all the bodies."

"Very well." Molgerus pointed to a small group of Jiralhanae. "Take four others and yourself. Move quietly and lie in wait, then kill them all. Send word if you require aid."

Tralbus clashed a fist against his chest plate. "It will be done, pack-leader." He then smirked at Urit. "With your leave, of course."

"Get you gone, "snarled Urit. "Away." His hands moved to his energy sword.

Tralbus snorted, and lumbered away. Urit rounded on Molgerus. "Exercise some control over him."

The fur-covered giant sniffed. "Relax. He amuses himself."

Feel free to laugh, barbarian. Urit ran his hands over his head and sighed. But I control the nukes, and this ship. And you and your kin are simply means to an end. Our agreement is void. With any luck the humans will have dealt with you before you make your escape-and I mine. And if not…I'll kill you myself.

* * *

An appalling amount of finery had been lavished on the colonnade. It was about one hundred metres long, and fifty metres wide. Long tubs filled with soil had been set into the floor, and ferns, palms and other plants rubbed up against each other like hunchbacks. A white tiled path wended its way through the room, occasionally splitting off into little arboreal sections. Plastic tubs of flowers were dotted here and there, forming ideal barricades. The path ended at a pair of escalators, which went up towards a landing and its attendant hatch. From the entrance door, a pair of metal catwalks-designed for military personnel passing through-ascended above the green maze and hugged the walls, leading to the other end of the room. The room was thick with a musky smell.

Kyle surveyed the room with a look of profound disapproval. "What is this, a plant convention?" he muttered. He turned to the group. "Horatio, get your ass on that catwalk. Cover us-there could be dozens of hostiles hunkered down in this mess. Benson!"

The recruit moved forward. "Uh, yes sir?"

The sergeant's gimlet eyes bored into him. "The other catwalk. Train that gun on the end hatch. Now."

"Got it sir." Benson clambered up the catwalk, nearly tripping on the stairs. Kyle turned back to the squad, pathos and despair in his eyes. "Everyone else, spread out in a skirmish line. Stay low, and off the path. Gerun, Dasa and Lazu, you three taking point?"

The golden Elite nodded his assent. "Our armour will bear the brunt of an attack. Yours will not. We will proceed ahead of you." He waved his needler.

"Good. Horatio and Benson will meet us over there. Go." They spread out, and plunged into the greenery.

Horatio scanned the gardens, but quickly grew bored. There was nothing in sight. Even so, the wavering mass of plants was disorienting him. He pulled the safety catch on his rifle, sighted through the scope, and exhaled. Ready.

He heard a muffled curse, and saw Benson fumbling with his rifle. The kid was nervous. Still, he'd been given an easy job. He'd be fine. He kept his eyes on his teammates, inching through the garden.

He then frowned. Had that been a trace of movement amongst the shrubs? He squinted, but saw nothing. Even so, his hackles rose.

Len swore as a small palm caught him in the face, and he pushed it away. This place was like a damned forest. He brought his rifle up to help bash his way through the arbor. This movement saved his life.

A Brute, clad in an odd set of emerald armour, vaulted over the plastic tub ahead of him, the jagged blades of his spike rifle flashing, going for Len's face. Shouting in alarm, the marine intercepted the blades with his rifle. It was bisected in half, but Len was unscathed. He dived to the right, reaching for his pistol.

Snarling, the Brute turned, but his cover had been blown. Horatio had lined up on him, and the rifle kicked in his hands as he fired. Shielding flared, and a bloody hole appeared in the Brute's shoulder, the metal plating warped. Len emptied his clip into the Brute, until it staggered. It sent a volley of spikes his way, but he merely ducked. Already, the other squad members were converging on the lone Brute.

That was their mistake.

The hatch blew open with a bang. Four more Brutes charged into the room, guns firing. The squad was bunched up, and Xavier howled in agony as a spike thudded into his leg. Lazu growled in discomfort as a dose of spikes broke his shields and gashed his arm. Worse, the Brute had fled, leaping, ducking and twisting his way towards his packmates. Horatio fired again, but to no avail.

Kyle dragged Xavier behind a tub, shouting orders. "Take cover! Horatio, Benson, cover fire, push them back! Dasa, bombardment now!"

"Aye, "the Elite said grimly, who'd been ducked down amongst a webbing of geraniums. He shouldered his cannon, and fired a trio of bursts at the Brute squad. The green orbs blew huge holes in the deck, stunning the enemy and, for one unfortunate, incinerating his torso. The Brutes kept firing, though. Dasa was forced to cover.

Kyle grimly attended to Xavier's wound. He pulled the spike out (ignoring Xavier's screams), and applied a biofoam pack. In a few minutes he was shaky but ready to go.

The fighting continued. Terry and Ollie, tossed grenades over the dividers, but the Brutes dodged them. Horatio tried to get a clear shot, but a constant rain of razor projectiles kept him down. Benson tried a few scattered shots, but nothing came of it. Eventually, Kyle picked one off after a concerted burst of fire. But that still left three, and there was no end in sight.

"This ain't good, Sarge, "Terry yelled at Kyle, who was tossing grenades. "They've got us pinned down, and they must have back-up on the way. We gotta take 'em down!"

"You got any ideas?"

No!"

"Then shut up and keep firing!"

Suddenly Gerun's voice was heard. "I have a plan. But you must cover me while I gain distance."

"What!?"

"It is best I undertake this venture, "the Elite said gravely. "My blade is the only thing that can seek out their lives with surety." The weapon flashed blue-white in his hands.

"But-"

"Do it now!" The Elite was suddenly bounding, racing for the Brute squad.

They rounded on him, but then the marines acted. Bullets and plasma filled the air, and the Brutes were forced back, gases oozing from the tears in their armour. Gerun had only thirty paces left.

One sighted him and fired. A lucky round penetrated his shields and lodged in his chest. Gerun grimaced but didn't stop. In a span of heartbeats he was upon them, sword swinging.

The first went down in a gurgling spray, throat laid open. The second swung his blades, catching Gerun on the shoulder. It had little effect. He had his arm cut off at the elbow, and the alien went down, blood spurting. The third Brute, the one with emerald armour, had wised up by now. He discarded his weapon and, moving in close, grabbed Gerun's wrists.

From there, the Elite could not manipulate the blade. But then he twisted, the pair locked against each other. Gerun managed to carve a bloody line down the Brute's shin, but with a wrench the latter ripped the weapon free and tossed it away. They now grappled free-for-all, weaponless.

The Brute smashed a fist into Gerun's face, but he hunched and his shoulder took most of the blow. "Brute scum!" he roared. Placing both hands on the Brute's shoulders, he drove a knee into his chest. Winded, the Brute scrabbled for position. But Gerun grabbed the Brute's head and hurled him to one side. He strode over to the Brute.

With a surprising feat of strength the Brute sat up and tackled Gerun, bringing them both down. Snarling, the Brute shook his head, the edges of his helmet scarring Gerun's face. Then Gerun snapped his head up, and the Brute saw stars. Gerun used this opportunity. He pulled the Brute to his feet, and, grunting with exertion, tossed him over the railing.

The Brute opened his eyes weakly, only to see Dasa and Lazu standing over him. "Surprise, "they said in unison. Then they both set upon him with fist and weapon butt. By the time they were done, the bitter tang of Brute blood filled the air. The body of Tralbus lay bloodied and broken.

Gerun looked down at them. "Is the beast slain?"

Lazu reached for a nearby palm frond and cleaned the stained butt of his carbine. "Dead and buried. The craven had no backbone, as usual." He looked around. "How fare the others?"

Slowly, everyone made their way in. Kyle was supporting a wan-looking Xavier, whose leg muscle was torn. He would require medical treatment, but he could walk for now. Benson was white as a sheet, but was unharmed. The lightning-fast nature of combat was obviously new to him. Gerun had suffered the worst. Aside from the numerous cuts and bruises, a spike was embedded in his upper chest. The massive alien shrugged it off, though.

Len trailed in, looking dispirited. "That green bugger sliced my rifle to pieces. Anyone got a spare?" Ollie tossed him a second SMG-he was carrying two for this op. He slotted the clip in. "Thanks."

Kyle fronted the end hatch, which was now a gaping hole. "They came from that way. Let's head through, and stay sharp-five Brutes wouldn't be able to pilot a ship on their own. Ollie, Tacmap."

"Let's see….not far to the service tunnel. Let's go." The squad moved off.

* * *

"Tralbus, report!"

Urit hid a satisfied smile as Molgerus barked into his headset. The pompous ass was most likely dead. Urit knew Lazu, Gerun and Dasa were fearsome fighters. Not to mention the humans.

But that is their strength and weakness. I know how to deal with them.

Urit turned back to the Brute Shipmaster. "No luck, I trust?"

Molgerus bared his teeth. "No. The intruders have spoiled well, it seems. Tralbus was a competent soldier-this bodes ill."

Urit snorted. "He was a braggart. The question is, what do _you_ intend to do next?"

Molgerus' eyes flared. "I will take the pack and throw our might against these pathetic fools! And any who stand in our way-"he stepped closer, squeezing his hammer-"will be destroyed. Understood?"

Urit knew better than to slight him. Molgerus was infamous for his berserker rages. "Of course. I will stay here with the ship-"

Molgerus laughed harshly. "Oh, no. What kind of fool do you presume I am? I have not lived as long as I have by trusting sly, treacherous Sangheili. I will leave four here to keep an eye on things-"

"If I might offer a suggestion."

They both turned, to see the new arrival striding up the ramp. It was a human, wearing grey fatigues, a cap and was in possession of a bushy grey moustache. He, along with five other rebels, had arrived in a ramshackle transport coated with stealth panels. Urit had no idea who he was, but Molgerus did-no doubt a fellow reprobate in an already-sordid coalition of criminals. Until now, he'd said nothing, just watched.

His steely eyes surveyed them. "I'm willing to leave my men here while you attack, Chieftain. That way you can bring more troops and still have your insurance."

The Brute nodded thoughtfully. "Very well. But I will still leave two of my men here."

Urit was still frustrated, but that was better. Two Jiralhanae and a rag-tag bunch of human rebels would be child's play to an accomplished warrior such as himself. "So be it."

"Good." Molgerus faced his pack. "Arm yourselves! We go to deal death!" The pack began to howl, and gathered their weapons and equipment.

Urit turned away in disgust. Still, fifteen Jiralhanae was a potent force. It would be interesting to see what would happen next.

Molgerus went up to one of his other lieutenants. "You and two others must secure the human's control room-they will attempt to take it, I am sure."

"Yes, Chieftain, "the Brute growled.

* * *

"Here we are."

Kyle stopped before a hatch, and turned to the group. "Put your space-shit back on; this room's kinda….out in the open." They immediately did so.

"Out in the open?" Xavier interjected, leaning against the bulkhead. "You mean this place is outside? The ship'll see us and blast us to bits."

Kyle keyed the button. "See for yourself."

They stepped through into a cavernous room. This was the main hub of Habitat Gamma-doors throughout the room branched off to other sections-engineering, maintenance, the hangar bay on this side, and so on. What made it unique is that it had a recently installed dock-right in the middle of the room. Umbilicals weren't always safe, so on the _Lima_ the underside had been hollowed out, just below the room. The doors were currently closed, but if they were to open, the blackness of space would be seen. A compact scout ship, the Caesar, was held in place by docking nodules and gripper clamps. Around the ship were several walkways. Below was the pit, and the door.

Evidently the Caesar had only recently returned-crates and other supplies were neatly arranged everywhere. No weapons, unfortunately-just power cores, food, water and other equipment. A pair of massive roller doors lay at the far end-not unlike the rebel base's. Horatio's scalp prickled. It was a bad omen. He made for the ship, Terry trailing behind.

They gingerly made their way over the catwalks and entered the ship through its open hatch. "I'll check the cargo hold, "Terry said, heading towards the darkened recesses of the ship. Horatio looked around-it was undamaged. Evidently the Brutes hadn't gotten to it yet. The control panel was offline-yet there was something different about it. He strained to listen; was that a strange thrumming noise?

Terry came back, shaking his head. "Nothing major. Just some C-12 canisters. Enough for a decent explosion, but that's it."

"Too bad." Horatio nodded at the console. "Think we could use this thing?"

Terry blew air out his cheeks. "Doubt it. The cruiser's too tough for this birdy. Plus, what we need is inside the station." He made for the hatch. "May as well leave it." Horatio followed him.

They reported their findings to the team; Kyle shook his head. "No use to us. Xavier, grab the ordnance and-"

The roller doors slid open with a muted hiss, revealing a large pack of twelve Brutes. They were headed by a titanic figure clad in gold, with a massive hammer slung across its back. Seeing the group, it pointed and roared something. Moments later, Gerun yelled something back. "What did he say?" Kyle queried, slapping a clip into his battle rifle.

The Elite gave a grim half-smile. "He told me the pack would boil our entrails and feast on our unworthy flesh." He drew his needler pistol. "We shall see."

Suddenly, with surprising speed, the pack swung into action, hands reaching for weapons. "Get down!" Kyle cried, anticipating the first deadly salvo. Burning spikes, high-velocity grenades and hot plasma filled the air. The entire team hit the deck, and the battle was joined. Horatio threw himself behind a rack of metal pipes, and, poking his rifle over the top, returned fire. Beside him, Dasa, Gerun, Lazu, Ollie and Len did the same. Xavier and Kyle stayed back, lobbing grenades when the enemy ranks concentrated.

Ten Brutes dragged pieces of equipment to form a barricade, while another two tried edging around. The team was going to be trapped in a meat grinder, if they stayed much longer. "Terry, Benson!" Kyle snapped. "Head them off." He jabbed a finger at the Brute pair sidling around the edge of the pit. Bullets were sent in their direction, and they ducked behind the Caesar's metal bulk. One, with a grunt, began pulling himself onto the hull.

They kept firing, and eventually the lone Brute became too bold. Its shielding failed, plasma hissing from the armour. Groaning, it dropped to one knee. A grenade, courtesy of Terry, blew the Brute off its feet and sent it tumbling into the pit. "Hah!" Terry laughed, when the second Brute hurled itself off the ship, and into their midst.

Snarling, it tore at Terry with large, graceless fingers. Benson, shouting in alarm, fired, but his shots were panicked, and drilled into the floor. Terry fumbled for his knife, and found it. He jammed it into his enemy's thigh, and was rewarded with a howl of pain. He shot out his legs, and the alien rolled away, hands going for its own weapon.

Suddenly, Lazu was on the scene. Taking aim, he fired half-a-dozen shots into its head, and gore sprayed. "Keep up your guard, "he snapped at Terry, then returned to his position.

Terry turned to Benson. "You OK?"

The recruit swallowed. "Ye-yes. I'm fine-"

Sudden shouts-the Brutes their combative natures showing through, had charged their position. The pair rushed to help as the pack advanced on them. The first few went down easily enough, but more kept coming. "Scatter!" Kyle cried, and the team split up, firing their weapons.

Horatio huddled behind a crate, as Brutes spread out, firing after the fleeing squad. Frantically he looked for an escape route.

And his eyes alighted upon the Caesar. Scrambling, he sprinted along the catwalk. Spikes flew alongside his head, but he made it and slammed the hatch. He turned, yelped at seeing Dasa.

The Elite looked grim. "I was forced to this vessel. We must help the others."

"I know." He looked about. "This ship has chain guns-if we can get this bird online we can use them." He settled into the pilot's chair and started flicking buttons.

Meanwhile, the rest of the squad had separated into three separate groups, all crouched behind more paraphernalia. Gerun and Xavier were near the roller doors, Kyle, Xavier and Len a side-door marked ENGINEERING, and Ollie and Lazu had evaded the Brute searchers, and remained on the far side. Benson was nowhere to be found. All of them were under heavy fire, however.

Kyle felt despair as a grenade blew a crate to bits. Soon they'd have no cover, and the Brutes would annihilate them. He prepared to run, as more projectiles chipped away at their defenses.

Suddenly a voice came over the radio. "Sarge, can you hear me?"

Kyle frowned. "Horatio, that you?"

"Yep. Can you see a switch for the trapdoor?"

He looked about, and saw a red panel. "Yeah, why?"

"Me and Dasa are in the ship. Open the doors, and we'll take these bastards out. Hurry!"

"Copy that." He turned to Xavier and Len. "Keep me covered. I'm going to open the doors." By now, they knew not to ask questions-they simply nodded. Kyle took a deep breath, and sprinted for the switch.

Almost immediately, gunfire came his way. A spike buried itself in his shoulder. He gasped, but kept going. He felt for the switch, and pulled it.

With a deafening screech, the trapdoor opened. The howl of solar wind came through. Several Brutes had strayed too close to the edge, and disappeared, screaming, into the abyss.

Kyle turned, to have a fist smack into his jaw. He dropped, stunned, to see the livid form of the Brute chieftain. A bullet had struck his cheek, and maroon blood oozed from the wound. It grinned in a bestial fashion, and raised its hammer to strike.

That's when the Caesarcame to life. Strobe lights lit up, engines roared. The docking clamps retracted, and the scout ship lifted into the air. The Brutes, only eight in number, ceased their attacks and stared, open-mouthed. The combination of solar wind and the thrusters noise was overwhelming. Even the chieftain half-turned, hammer loose in its hands.

The trance was soon broken, as the Caesar's weapons, swiveling, targeted the Brutes. Hundreds of armour-piercing rounds filled the air. The chieftain threw his arms back, his shields flaring so bright it looked as though he was on fire. The rest of the Brutes took cover-but one was pummeled with bullets, and dropped wetly to the ground, unrecognizable.

With an ululating scream, the chieftain pushed through the storm of gunfire and swung its hammer savagely. With a whoomph, the chin gun was sheared off. The nose of the ship dented inwardly. The ship edged forward, heading for the wall, the apoplectic chieftain clinging to the front.

It hit the wall with a thunderous crash-but by this time the Brute had clambered upwards, and it only had one leg broken. Even then, it was agile. It roared something to its troops, and they resumed their attack. The ship was faltering now-it had suffered some serious damage.

Kyle knew they wouldn't be able to win this fight-not yet, anyway. "Alright soldiers, listen up! If we stay much longer we're fucked. Split up, and we'll regroup once all these bastards are down. Ollie!"

"Sir?"

"Head to Central Control-the service tunnel is on your side somewhere. Find it, locate the AI and see what you can find out. Horatio!"

"Sarge?"

"Get out of here-find a place to dock. Hell, get aboard the ship if possible. Make contact with HighCom, maybe. The rest of you, find a hole and whittle them down." There was a pause."Has anyone seen Benson?"

Silence on the radio.

Kyle spoke again, a trace of regret in his voice. "Alright then. Good luck guys, and stay alive. That's an order."

He turned to Xavier and Len. "With me!" he said roughly. The trio bolted through the hatch, and slammed the door. Four Brutes were hot on their heels.

Gerun and Xavier ran through the roller doors and turned left, darting down a corridor. Three Brutes behind them.

Ollie and Lazu went through a nearby doorway, going down a derelict corridor. Ollie was consulting the Tacmap. "Nearly there, "he muttered. He stopped at a caged door, and thrust it aside. Ahead lay darkness.

He stepped back, and activated his flashlight. "This'll take us to Central Control, if I can navigate us properly." Ollie looked at Lazu. "Can you fit?"

The Elite grunted. "I shall manage." He powered down his shields. The pair ventured into the darkness.

Back in the hub, the Caesar, smoke trailing from its engines, descended down into the pit, and out into space.

Nobody saw the small figure, a pair of Spikers in its hands, made its way down into the pit. It used the blades on the weapons like the mountain climbers of old. A heating coil, ripped from a wall panel, acted as a harness, attached to a magnetic hook.

Benson had no intention of being a casualty, some second-rate grunt who would be brought down in the first few seconds of combat. Since that first fight in the colonnade, he'd realised. They were all survivors. But he wasn't.

It was time to earn his keep. Besides, this squad needed a zero-gee specialist.

The small figure, now in space, crawled slowly towards the base of the cruiser.

* * *

Molgerus limped his way along the seemingly endless corridor in a black rage. He'd forgotten just how irritating the humans could be, especially with their cursed Sangheili allies. Most of his pack was dead, brothers he'd fought with since the start of the war. And now he would be slinking back to that blackguard Urit, tail between his legs. Still, some of his warriors remained. At the very least, they would buy him some time.

He slammed a fist into the wall, grunting with satisfaction as he saw it dent. He keyed his radio. "Kradus, do you copy?"

The gruff voice of his last remaining officer came through his headset. "I hear you, Chieftain."

"Do you still have the control room?"

"Yes, sir. We are keeping the vigil."

"Good. Be alert-the humans are scattered throughout this orbital like parasites. Stay in readiness."

"Aye, Chieftain."

* * *

Kradus finished his transmission, only to see the blocked doors of the hatch blow open. Scraps of paper and metal rained down. An Elite stepped through, carbine up and firing. The three Brutes fired back, forcing him to cover. He beckoned to his two warriors. "Let him come to us."

He activated his comlink, only to have it fizzle and crackle. He frowned, and removed his helmet to inspect it.

Ollie, lying down inside an air vent, chortled as he put away the pocket jammer. He had a perfect view of the room from here-the Brutes surrounding Lazu's position. Sweet candy.

He also noticed the vast array of computers and screens-most had been destroyed or defaced. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. The unsubtle methods of the Brutes infuriated him. He quietly prised off the access panel, and jammed down the trigger of his SMG-and threw a grenade for good measure.

In a matter of seconds the Brutes were down. Ollie jumped down, landing lightly on a desk. He went up to the main terminal. "Now let's see…"

He inserted a few data spikes, dissipating the firewalls. Soon he was flying through the network. After a few minutes, he frowned in consternation.

Lazu approached. "What is it?"

Ollie jabbed a finger at the screen. "This doesn't make any sense. There's no trace of the AI ever being in this system. What's more, the holo-tank's data log is clear. No-one manually removed it."

"What are you saying?"

"Somehow, the AI removed itself."

* * *

Horatio piloted the ailing scout ship around the situation, out of view of the cruiser. So far they'd had absolutely no luck in finding a berth. Dasa was getting frustrated.

He sighed, and dropped his head into his hands. The past few hours had taken a toll on him. He grabbed the controls and angled the ship down.

Suddenly red warning lights blared all over the control panel. Swearing in disbelief, he scrabbled for the buttons and switches on the dashboard. Dasa came thumping into the cockpit. "What's happening?" the Elite demanded.

Horatio stared at the system with a growing panic. "I-I don't know. It's started going crazy, like it's recalibrating itself…or something…"

The lights flared once, then blanked out. They were enveloped in darkness.

Then they re-appeared. And brighter than all of them, was a tiny figure, in the likeness of an Arabic hermit. Horatio looked at the figure. "Who are you?"

The hermit smiled. "I am Zack, commanding artificial intelligence of the space station Lima_._ And I can help you defeat these interlopers."

Dasa had a suspicious look on his face. "How did you make your way onto this vessel, construct? The Jiralhanae would have destroyed you, given the chance-so who was it?"

Zack snorted. "I did it, Sangheili. I am not as powerless as I appear."

"But how?"

Zack's eyes grew troubled. "By the use of the Forerunner relic aboard the cruiser."

Horatio looked disbelievingly at the AI. "What the hell have you been doing?"

Zack sighed, and laced his fingers. "I suggest you sit down. This may take some time."


	8. Chapter 8

*Chapter Seven

16th of October, 2553

Aboard Scout Ship _Caesar_

Orbital Station _Lima_

Horatio removed his helmet and rubbed his shaved head. "Let me get this straight. Urit Gebur' is trading nukes and other equipment to the Brutes in exchange for a Forerunner artifact?"

Zack, which was short for Zacchariah, nodded. "Indeed. The Brutes, and by extension, their masters the Prophets, still maintain a sizeable collection of Forerunner relics. Why do you think some Grunts and Hunters still fight under their banner? They were bribed."

Dasa nodded grudgingly. "It makes sense. So, construct, how is it you are still alive? The Jiralhanae would have destroyed you, given the chance."

The AI chuckled, a mechanical sound. "Indeed they would have. But I had my escape well planned. Oh, they arrived stealthily enough-they had no radioactive materials and extra stealth linings. But when the ship entered the system, the artifact sent a ripple through Slipspace. My drones detected it. However, after some thinking, I elected not to contact HighCom and inform them."

"And why is that?" Horatio demanded. "If you had, the people aboard the orbital might have escaped. We could have destroyed them before they docked!"

Zack shrugged sadly. "Perhaps. But I doubt they would have believed me-there have been no incursions in this system for months. Besides, the ship had changed hands several times-for all I knew, it could have belonged to Elites."

Horatio's anger subsided. "Alright then. So, go on. How'd you get away?"

"When the Brutes docked, they immediately rampaged through the station-none survived, as far as I can tell. When they reached Central Control, I cut off my signal unit and retrieved all traces of myself from outlying processors. Even so, they unleashed viral scavengers upon the system. I had no way of moving or communicating at all-else I would have been destroyed."

"So how did you?"

The AI smiled thinly. "I raised my signal unit-just enough to check for anything I could use. That's when I happened across the artifact-it had a tremendous aura of energy. The data was off the charts. But that wasn't the whole of it."

"Apparently-and I think the Brutes are unaware of this-the relic functions as a massive repository. It can be used as a storage area, as a vehicle…and so on. The possibilities are numerous. It was tricky, but I was able to transfer myself from Central Control, along a "bridge" of energy, into the artifact."

Dasa was fascinated. "What was it like within the relic?"

Zack's eyes shone, illuminating the cockpit with white light. "Amazing. It was an entire world within there. Endless plains of matter, light and energy. It felt like a dream-or what a dream is supposed to feel like, seeing as I've never had one. I even conversed with the beings within. They had lost most of their identity-but they still knew what I was."

Horatio whistled. "Sounds freaky."

Zack nodded. "It was incredible. But, I quested outwards-and found the _Caesar's_ transponder. So, I made my way in there and waited."

Dasa rubbed his gnarled hands. "Very well-that issue is resolved. Now then, how can you help us, Zack?"

The AI made a noise that Horatio assumed was clearing his throat. "It will be dangerous, but relatively simple. If I can make contact with the artifact-but closer this time-I will be able to destroy it. The explosion will completely destroy the ship-"

"What about the rest of the team? They're still aboard."

Zack waved a hand. "The damage to the _Lima_ will be minimal. As I was saying, the ship will be destroyed, and the crisis will be over. So-we sneak aboard the vessel, find the artifact, let me complete my work and then leave."

"How will you destroy the artifact?"

Zack grinned, and withdrew from the folds of his holographic folds of his robe, a sliver of something. It looked like burnished bronze. "This is a sample of the energy within the artifact. However, it has been…tainted, by outside influences. When I bring this in with me, it shall cause a chain reaction. Satisfied?"

Dasa growled. "It is hard to let go of habit-Forerunner relics have always been sacrosanct. Yet…it must be."

Horatio drummed his fingers on the dashboard. "Well, good. Now, how do we get in there?"

Zack's brow furrowed. "_That_ I don't know. We can't try and enter the hangar bay-they'll destroy us on sight. And re-entering the station will put us back to square one. Not to mention this boat is running on half power; we can't keep circling forever."

"What about contacting HighCom? Hell, we can see them from here." On the view screens, the blockade of ships could be seen.

Zack shook his head. "No chance-the _Caesar's _communications circuit was damaged when it hit the wall."

Horatio sighed. "Thinking caps on, then."

Outside, the stars glimmered against the backdrop of space. The tiny scout ship continued to meander around the station's bulk, the ones inside desperately trying to devise a plan.

* * *

A grenade, sparking with blue electricity, slammed itself into the bulkhead and blew a saucer-sized hole in the metal paneling. "Come on!" Terry yelled to Len, who was supporting Kyle. The spike had worked it sway out, but the result was a sudden outpouring of blood. Clumsily, the trio hobbled through the doorway, as the sounds of the Brutes footfalls echoed along the corridor. Terry pulled out a smoke grenade, removed the pin and sent it skidding along the floor. "That'll hold 'em, "he said grimly. He then punched pushed the button beside the door, causing it to seal with a pneumatic hiss. Extra reinforcing titanium bands joined together. He turned to survey the room.

The engineering hub was a huge room-at least a square kilometre-filled with massive steel columns, with small windows and panels indicating reactor activity. Twisting metal stairs and compact elevators led to higher levels, where hissing steam issued from the exhaust ports. It was, quite simply, a jungle.

_God, I'm so sick of mazes. Why can't we ever have a nice, clean battlefield? _He turned back to his comrades. Len was busy applying a biofoam slave to Kyle's wound. "What's the story, Sarge? Do we make a stand or what?"

Kyle's disposition was foul, all things considered. "Does it look as though we've got a choice, dumbass?" He glared at Terry, and unsteadily grabbed his rifle. "We either kill them here or we're done. They won't stop chasing us, you can be sure. Is that door sealed?"

Just as Terry was about to affirm it, a banging could be heard, followed by a Brute's angry roar. After a few seconds of useless hammering, the sound of gunfire began. "They'll be through here soon, if they keep that up, "Kyle growled. "Alright, they've got better arms and armour. We need to swing it in our favour. Ideas?"

Len looked up. "Why don't we make some steam?"

Terry cocked his head. "How's that?"

Len grinned. "Watch." He walked over to the closest steel column, and, using his knife, peeled off a section of plating. Excess steam billowed out, draping the area around it in a fug.

Kyle took out his own knife. "Maybe you've got something there. Make it quick-we haven't got long." The three immediately set to work.

The Brute in charge, Shardus, was a particularly bloodthirsty individual. He itched for the opportunity to close with the human scum. He tried cleaving the door open with his weapon's bayonet for a few minutes, but to no avail. He turned to his compatriot, Jevius. "Have you had any luck?"

Jevius re-holstered his spiker angrily. "Nay; the door is too thick. We must pierce the armour plating before proceeding."

Shradus nodded. "Stand back, all of you." He reached into his combat webbing and set an incendiary charge against the wall and tapped a few buttons. After a few seconds, the bomb ignited, throwing lurid red shadows against the walls and melting the door open. Kicking the still-glowing pieces of door aside, they lumbered through, weapons drawn.

They were greeted by a boiling maelstrom of steam. Cursing, Shardus waved a hand in a vain attempt to dissipate it. "What trickery is this? Where has this mist come from?"

Jevius pointed at the barely visible forms of the reactor columns. "Those pipes; they emit vast quantities of it."

"Yes, but surely not this much-"

A fusillade of bullets appeared out of the mist and slammed into Shardus' chest-his armour held, but only just. Cupping a hand to his torso, Shardus shrieked with rage, his eyes flaring red. "Cowards! Stinking, craven cowards!" He savagely fired a quartet of grenades into the fog.

Nothing but the rasping of the conduits.

Shardus licked his lips, and gestured to his men. "Spread out, all of you-they are of few number. We possess shielding-we can easily defeat them!" The three other Brutes growled in concordance, and began disseminating.

Jevius, spiker out in front, ascended the nearest stairwell, huge feet making the stairs creak. When he reached the landing, he was greeted by a series of metal catwalks, spread out overhead of the ground floor. Around twenty paces onward, a conveyor belt sat between two catwalks. It was designed to carry specialized materials in secure titanium cubes, but was offline. The belt in question stretched on for about two hundred metres either way, leading into darkened recesses in the wall.

His radio crackled. _"Jevius, I shall ascend to the level above you-search ahead. I have your back."_

"_Aye, sir." _Jevius moved up, wisps of steam clinging to his armour. All about him was white. He heard a brushing sound to his left, and whipped around.

Nothing.

He turned back, only to have a knife sleet through the fog and thud into his arm. He snarled, and strode forward, firing his spike rifle. Another knife, coming from the right, struck his chest and shattered, spraying the catwalk with pieces of metal. He inexorably continued, and saw a figure running through the fog. Grinning savagely, he leaped onto the conveyor belt to gain a better field of fire.

With a groan, the belt began to move-startled, Jevius lost his balance and fell backwards. A body landed on him, trying to shove a gun of some sort under his chin.

Enraged, Jevius grabbed his assailant by the throat and threw him back. He threw a hand out, grabbed the edge of a cube and got to his feet. Straight ahead, a human soldier faced him, breathing heavily. "I will enjoy spilling your blood, human wretch!" he roared. He brought up his rifle.

* * *

Len fired his assault rifle at the Brute.

It twisted to one side, and the rounds missed. Sprinting forward, it crash-tackled Len and grabbed his lapels, roaring.

Kyle chose that moment to act. Standing behind a tangle of pipes on a catwalk adjacent to the conveyor belt, he opened fire. The alien snorted in fury as the rounds forced it backwards, onto its ass. Len brought up his pistol shakily, getting a few rounds off. But it failed to penetrate the Brute's shielding.

The Brute leapt to its feet, jamming the spiker blades deep into Len's thigh. Roaring in pain, Len yanked the barbed bayonets out of his thigh and went on the offensive. He delivered a series of punches that, while not seriously harming the Brute, pushed it back. Added fire from Kyle caused it to stagger.

That was when the Brute acted. It shook off the bullets and seized Len with both hands, lifting him into the air. "Lemme go, you dumb ape-shit!" the marine yelled. The Brute approached the edge of the belt, preparing to throw him down to his death.

A lucky shot from Kyle hit the Brute's arm-Len's flailing about was enough to make the Brute drop him. He backed away, getting to his feet. With a curse, he realised he'd dropped his pistol. He was defenseless.

Suddenly he noticed he was now on the Brute's side. The belt had nearly reached the end-the hole beckoned. Cubes disappeared inside it. Everything clicked.

The Brute roared its anger, flexed its fists, and charged. Len stood ready.

The alien flew towards him…and Len ducked.

Jevius sailed over the human's head, and landed with a thud on top of a cube. Dazed, he looked around him-and saw the access hole. _What?_

Before he could move, the cube entered the wall. He was far too big, and, after some resistance, his spine snapped. The Brute clogged the hole now.

Satisfied, Len began making his way back to the catwalks. There were Brutes to kill.

* * *

Kyle waved to Len, and emerged from his cover. So far, so good-the Brutes were having trouble adjusting to this environment. He found a ladder, and clambered down.

He heard grunting, and saw a pair of Brutes hurrying along a catwalk-towards Terry's position. He needed to ward them off. Firing his battle rifle, he got their attention. Then ran.

Spikes and grenades followed him, leaving destruction in his wake. He rounded a corner, clattered down some stairs and got into position.

The Brute pair, grunting with exertion, stomped down the steps, crimson eyes scanning the dark spaces underneath the stairs. One jabbed a finger towards the end. "Go there-I shall watch for anything untoward." His companion huffed in assent and set off.

Kyle watched from the shadows. Reaching slowly into his back pocket, he withdrew a small, metal cylinder and slowly tossed it into the open panel on the floor.

The clink alerted them both; convinced that Kyle was hiding there, they both charged towards the spot. Finding the open trapdoor, they paused in consternation. "What now?"

"Perhaps it has taken refuge in here-we must proceed." The pair lowered themselves in, only to find a low-hanging room filled with conduits.

The panel slammed shut on them. The Brutes turned, roaring. Kyle's voice came through the grating.

"Oldest trick in the book-guess you guys never read it, though. Take a gander on the floor and tell me what you see."

The Brutes looked down, and saw the metal cylinder. Its casing had a small window, through which luminous purple liquid could be seen. They looked at each other in horror.

"That's right, "Kyle grinned, "plasma charge." He walked away, pressing the detonator as he went.

The screams of the two aliens could barely be heard over the roiling boom of the explosion.

* * *

Terry choked back a laugh as he saw the two Brutes lope off after Kyle, thinking he was cowardly fleeing. He'd pulled that one on plenty of enemies before-and it still worked.

He looked around him-no contacts. He went to join Len, who was still some distance off.

The form of Shardus, clinging to the tangle of pipes and steel lattices overhead, dropped to the catwalk with a thud. Terry whirled, hands going to his rifle.

The Brute pointed at him. "I remember you, "it said quietly. "You were the one with the knives. The one who takes pleasure in striking those whose backs are turned."

Terry was surprised that the Brute remembered him at all. He was even more surprised that it deigned to speak to him-most Covenant did not, as a rule. Even so, it was all psychological. "Just a question of style, buddy." Terry tensed, and stepped onto the balls of his feet. If the Brute fired, he would have to dodge it.

It continued to stand quietly, brute shot held loosely in its hands. "You have no camouflage now-you stand alone. How will you fare, I wonder?"

With a screech it raised its weapon and squeezed off a shot-Terry dived to the floor, and the grenade zoomed over his shoulder, hit a ladder and destroyed it. He drew a bead on the Brute and fired, snapping the Brute's head back and causing its next shot to go high and wide. The grenade hit a heating coil, which clattered onto the catwalk.

Shardus, frothing at the mouth, attempted a sideways swipe with his bayonet. Terry, on his feet by now, leaned back, and it missed by the barest of inches. A powerful punch to the collarbone followed, sending him onto his back. He saw the flash of the bayonet, and rolled.

With a _scrang!_ the blade embedded itself in the floor and wouldn't let go. Grunting, Shardus tried to pull it out, but it wouldn't budge. He looked up, only to have Terry's armored shoulder body-slam him, sending a flash of multicolored lights through his brain. With a bit of effort, he managed to foul Terry's stride and bring him down with him.

The pair tumbled, round and round. Terry shoved an elbow in Shardus' face, cracking the metal casing around his muzzle. Shardus reciprocated by slamming a meaty fist into his gut, winding him. Gasping, the marine crawled away, reaching for his pistol. Shardus got up and walked over to him.

"Eat shit!" Terry cried, and unloaded a clip into Shardus' face. The last two bullets hit his chin, sending a spray of purple blood everywhere. But he kept coming. He reached out, grasped Terry's head and threw him at least ten feet.

Groaning, Terry sat up and took stock-he was right next to a six-foot drop. The heating coil had snagged on the railing, and dangled. He was considering this, when the Brute's shadow fell over him.

Grinning, it drew a spiker from its belt. "I will make you scream long before I kill you, human dog." It squeezed the trigger.

Len stepped onto the catwalk and fired. The bullets hit home, and Len emptied the magazine into Shardus. With an animalistic shriek of rage, it tumbled off the catwalk-but not before knocking Terry over the railing with him.

Terry yelled as he bounced off the opposite railing and plummeted downward. His hands found the heating coil, and he clutched it to his chest like a lifeline. Below, the Brute held on for dear life. Len ran over to the railing. "Terry! You alright?"

"What's it look like, dickhead?!" Terry slipped a little further down, and his heart went into overdrive.

Len had the grace to look sheepish. "OK, OK. Wait-just gotta take care of this douche." He took aim, and fired. The Brute lost its grip and plunged, howling, into the misty abyss.

But this had caused a radical difference in the coil's weight and disposition-it grated, and lost its purchase on the railing. It began sliding. "No!" Len shouted. He tried to grab it, but was too late. Terry and the coil fell, twisting into the fog.

Len dropped his head into his hands. He'd been too late. Terry was dead. He choked back a sob, only to have Kyle grab him by the shoulder.

The Sarge's face was red with rage. "Stop the pussy fest, Corporal! He might still be alive, and even if not, we need to kill that bastard! And I have a plan." The pair, now roused, bolted down the stairs as fast as they could.

* * *

The fog whipped around Terry's ears as he fell. _This is it, _he thought. _I'm gonna die with only a pipe for company. _

Suddenly his rapid descent stopped, with a jarring thud. He chanced a look around. He was situated about fifteen metres above the ground floor, the pipe tangled in a metal strut. However, it was slipping. He tensed, and bent his knees.

The coil slipped again, sending Terry down again. Ten metres…five….

He hit the ground hard-so hard he heard a crack. He must have fractured something. Swearing, he tried getting on his leg and managed it-just.

He keyed his COM. "_Sarge, Len, if you can hear me, I made it and I'm on the ground floor-"_

A metal-clad fist appeared out of the mist and thudded under his chin. The impact of the blow sent Terry skidding along the floor. He coughed up blood.

His eyes widened as Shardus, blood leaking from his armour, limbs broken and a seriously pissed-off look on his face, lumbered over, a murderous gleam in his eyes. "Thought I died, didn't you?" It stepped closer. "DIDN'T YOU?!"

It roared, and picked Terry up by the throat, near choking him. Purple lights blotted out his vision. The Brute was laughing as it choked the life from him.

Len and Kyle arrived just in time. Both opened up on the Brute, and more armour shattered. But it was still alive.

Kyle appraised the situation and it crystallized-this alien was motivated by his sheer hatred of humans. He needed to be put down-and not with bullets. He turned to Len. "Len, save him. I'll get things started."

While Len charged off, firing his weapon, Kyle activated his radio. _"Ollie, come in. Ollie, do you read me? Are you at Central Control yet?" Over."_

A faint, tinny voice was heard. _"I hear ya, Sarge. I'm there. What is it?"_

"_I need you to open a vent core in Engineering. Enough to make a barbecue."_

"_Sarge, that could be dangerous-"_

"_I don't fucking care! Now, do it!"_

"_Uh, OK. Which one?"_

He looked about, and saw that the nearest column read NINE. _"Nine!"_

"_Got it." _In Central Control, Ollie's hands skittered over the keyboard, neutralizing firewalls and entering maintenance codes. Finally, he found Engineering's system.

He accessed Reactor Core Subsidiary Nine, and shut down all safety inhibitors. _"It's opening, Sarge!"_

"_Alright, good. Sarge out." _Kyle yelled to Len, "Lure him to that column!"

Len had harassed the Brute enough to make it release Terry; screaming with bloodlust, it took rapid swings at Len, without success. But Len was out of ammo-if the Brute got him, he'd be toast. He was nearly in front of the vent panel.

Kyle saw the pressure gauge almost full. "Len, get outta there!"

Len dodged one more punch and threw himself to the ground, hands over ears.

The Brute turned, fixed burning eyes on the marine.

A blast of superheated energy rocketed out of the vent and wrapped itself around the Brute. Its final scream was one that contained nothing of fear, only anger.

When the fire died down, and the vent core automatically sealed itself, the Brute was ashes.

Shakily, Kyle contacted Ollie. _"We're good now, Ollie. Seal it off-auxiliary measures won't be enough. What's your status?"_

"_Me and Lazu are all good. How's the family?"_

"_A few close calls, but scraping through. I'll reactivate my transponder-do any last-minute chores and join us. You make contact with the AI?"_

"_Meant to tell you that-it's gone. It's like it was never there."_

"_What? Oh, never mind. Just do whatever and meet us."_

"_Roger that sir. Ollie out."_

Kyle attended to Terry-he was badly injured. He propped him up, and began applying a biofoam cast to his fractured calf. Len, his face now covered in flash burns, made his way over. "I swear to God, I need a holiday."

Kyle grunted. "Don't we all. Len, head upstairs and grab whatever weapons you can find. We're heading out in five. Terry, can you walk?"

Terry winced, and tried tentatively. "I think so, but I'm not gonna be running any marathons-"

"Good. Then you can go with Len." His tone brooked no argument.

Terry limped off sullenly, muttering, "Why do I open my mouth?"

* * *

"Are you done?" Lazu asked.

"Almost."

Ollie rubbed his hands as he finished the last of his decryption program-it was slapdash, but it would work. After refining his processor pathways, he sent it into the system.

He cackled as the vaunted firewalls and encrypted defenses folded like cards. He had access to all databanks in the _Lima._ The first thing he checked was Fire Control-if the ship made a break for it he would be able to stop it. Full ammo count, magnetic coils active. Good.

He flipped through the numerous cameras, but saw nothing untoward. Also good.

He checked the personnel files-activated the search function. No transponders were active. Ollie sighed regretfully. No-one was left alive.

He moved onto the system's intelligence mainframe. Various sentient programs and accessories existed, but only one AI had ever existed in the system. He accessed its formerly occupied core, complete with logged activity and timeframe.

And frowned.

Lazu came up behind him. "Now what is it?" The Elite had little patience for this sort of thing.

Ollie didn't reply, chewing his lip for a few seconds. He then inserted a remote backdoor chip (allowing him limited access to the system from a data pad) and shut down the display. "Let's get to Kyle and the others. I've got something to tell him."

It was a pity Ollie turned off the display, and by extension the cameras. Because otherwise he would have seen Xavier and Gerun. And they were in trouble.

* * *

Xavier was squeezed up against the wall, Gerun on the opposite side. Various projectiles sailed between them. Occasionally Gerun fired back, but else they were pinned down.

Making for the umbilical had been an unfortunate outcome-it was the same way the Brute pack had came from. The good thing was that it was leading them to the ship, and their objective. The bad thing was that the Brutes wanted to beat them back.

Three Brutes were causing an unbelievable amount of inconvenience. Gerun's fists were clenched with anger. "Damnable Jiralhanae! We must needs deliver ourselves from here, lest we be caught in an endless war."

"Sure thing, "Xavier muttered, firing his rifle around the doorframe. "Got anything in mind?"

Gerun's eyes flashed as he began turning the situation over in his mind. "These umbilicals are retractable, correct? They can be manipulated in a variety of ways."

"Right, right. So?"

"_So, _"Gerun said deliberately, "we jettison this umbilical. With them still on it."

"Are you crazy?" Xavier fixed his eyes on the Elite commander. "We don't even have spacesuits. We'll die, even if we make our way off this one-"

"We shall transfer ourselves to the other umbilical and continue! Do you understand?"

"Yes, fine!" Xavier shook his head. "Man, out of all the people I end up with I get stuck with a crazy Elite…"

Gerun pointed to the roof. "Make your way along there-there should be maintenance space. Get to the entrance, and jettison this place."

"But what about you?" Xavier protested, as bolts of plasma ricocheted off the walls.

"I shall be fine! Now go, Xavier!" He reached up, and wrenched a panel off the ceiling. "I will lift you."

Acceding, Xavier dashed over, dodging spikes, and was unceremoniously dumped into the roof. There was barely any room. Getting a mouthful of wires, he spat them out and wriggled onward.

The Brutes noticed the lessening of return fire, and became bolder. Their impromptu leader, Grallus, shouted to his troops, "We have him! Soon he will run low on ammunition, and we will feast on Sangheili flesh!" The other two Brutes jeered sycophantically.

Xavier reached the end, and set a small charge on the locking plate. He crawled backwards, as the charge blasted the metal strips, leaving a smoking hole. He dropped through, landing awkwardly. "Ow!" he yelled.

At the end of the orbital, snuffling sounds were heard-the Brutes had heard him. Time to bail. He found the control panel, and accessed the detraction function. He hit the affirmative button. Then, he drew his pistol and fired at the panel.

The umbilical, moving, suddenly stuttered to a stop. It moved forward, then back, then forward…a groaning noise rippled through the hull. Xavier stood uncertainly.

Gerun's voice came over the radio. _"Go, human! Retreat to the next umbilical! I will meet you there!"_

Privately Xavier thought Gerun had a snowball's chance in hell. But he did as he was told. He dashed out into the lobby, set a charge against the door, and blew it off the hinges. He dashed into the next one, and waited.

Through a window, he saw the other umbilical detach itself from the ship, and tumble down, and down. Before too long it began to burn up in the atmosphere. Xavier sighed, and leaned his arm against the bulkhead. Gerun was gone.

Suddenly he heard a tapping on the window. He walked over to see the form of Gerun, his face turning purple. Hurriedly, he donned his helmet, made it airtight and decompressed the chamber., allowing the window to blow open.

Gerun, with a struggle, fitted through the gap. Xavier surveyed him with amazement. "How did you survive being out in open space?"

Gerun looked at him with a frown. "Sangheili have four lungs-we are able to hold our breath for much longer. And our armour safeguards us from the vacuum. Did you not know?"

"Nup, "Xavier said truthfully. "But it sounds handy."

Gerun smiled. "Indeed it is. Now, come-our objective awaits." The pair ventured cautiously down the umbilical.

* * *

Urit smirked with barely-concealed satisfaction as Molgerus, leg pointed at an unnatural angle, limped into the control room. He was also pleased to see none of his pack were with him-it would make this coup easier. "Well?" he inquired politely.

The Brute Shipmaster was in no mood for talk. "Silence, Elite, or you will feel my hammer striking your face. I must report to the medical bay." He went through a side door and was gone.

Urit mentally calculated how long it would take for his leg to be healed by the automated surgical drone. Not long-he would have to prepare. He double-checked his energy blade's power readout-half capacity. Good enough. He also felt for his plasma rifle, to make sure it was there.

To cap it off, he shot a covetous glance at the sealed, purple container that now graced a hover-trolley. Inside was his pride and joy-the Forerunner artifact, known to all its owners as The Surrogate. The Prophets had coined this term long ago, and no-one knew why its name was so strange. No matter-one thing was guaranteed, and that it had seemingly endless inner power. With this, he could power a battleship for fifty lifetimes. He would live in luxury, garnering even more artifacts to himself until he would be as revered as the Prophets-maybe even more so.

Urit well knew the Prophets would not have parted with it. But the Brutes…that was a different matter. He sneered inwardly. The Prophets should have known better than to entrust such matters to the hands of these unsubtle apes.

"An amazing thing, The Surrogate."

Urit turned, to see the human rebel standing beside him, gazing at the container. He sighed inwardly. Why couldn't he just keep to his own affairs? "Indeed."

The rebel stroked his bushy grey moustache. "I am surprised that the Prophets didn't attempt to use it for offense-it could power any number of generators and engines, even in combat."

Urit almost gagged-how did the human know about The Surrogate's power? The secrets of these relics were highly guarded. "And how do you know of this?"

The rebel shrugged. "It's no secret. I myself had ownership of that artifact, then traded it to some ambitious Covenant in exchange for safe passage. It's a great coincidence that it has ended up here, I must say."

Urit's curiosity overcame his disdain for the human. "How did you come by it?"

The rebel was silent. Then he said, "None of your business." He walked away.

Urit resisted the urge to cleave the insolent worm in half. _All in good time._

The rebel leader approached one of his men. "Is he in place?"

"Yessir. The memory processor is ready."

"Good."

* * *

"Are you certain?" Kyle demanded.

The group was gathered about a damaged elevator, which would ideally bypass their original entry spot and stop a short distance from the umbilical. As well as trying to fix it, Ollie was explaining his discovery.

"I had a look at the AI data log, "Ollie said, feverishly wrangling with the elevator's uplift module. "And it reports there being _two_ AI's in the core-at once. Doesn't make sense."

"So?" Kyle inquired. "The AI's gone, big whoop-"

"But that's not it, sir." He glared at him. "The log reports this being the case for a space of 4.2 seconds. Then there was one. And it didn't cause a blip in the system."

"Go on."

"I've dissected a brief scan of the intruding presence. I don't recognise its signature-it's a human AI, all right-but it's….different. Somehow. Don't ask me why."

"Anyway, this AI is now masquerading as the _Lima's_ intelligence, and believe me, it's not friendly. I've no idea where it's gone, but it could cause major problems for us."

Kyle nodded grimly. "Then we go now. Hard and fast, before this rogue AI gets us. You fixed that elevator yet?"

"Almost…..right, done." The green light came up, and the lift door slid open. "Let's go." The squad piled into the elevator and it shot downward. They were passing the hangar bay, when Ollie exclaimed, "Hey! Stop the elevator!"

Lazu hit the button, and the lift slowed, and stopped. Kyle turned to him. "Why? What is it?"

Ollie jabbed a finger at his data pad-on which there was a station schematic. "I'm detecting a foreign energy source outside the station, above the hangar bay."

"Isn't that where we saw those rebels at the beginning?" Terry interjected.

"Yes…perhaps they were arranging a backdoor of some sort. Let's go check it out, "Kyle said.

They got out at the hangar bay, and donned their space-gear. Ollie opened the hangar doors, and they swam out into space, going upwards into the tangled forest of beams and pipes. The lights from their helmets caused shadows to dance on the metal.

Ollie led the way, data pad in hand. _"Almost there…" _he muttered. They rounded a large, dominant steel beam and into an alcove.

Sitting in the space was a twisting flux of green-yellow energy. It was capped by a triangular metal plate. Wires and cables snuck out of it, leading to a humming purple generator. Ollie couldn't believe it. _"It's a teleporter. The crazy Insurrectionist bastards, they built a teleporter."_

"_They must have had Covenant help, "_Kyle decided. _"Can you match this energy signature with another?"_

"_Just a sec…"_ They waited in the darkness. _"Yep, no doubt about it. This leads into the ship!"_

"_Good! Let's go. Lazu, you have the point."_

"_Yes, Sergeant." _The group entered the shimmering teleporter, ready to finish this mission.

* * *

"I have an idea!" Zack cried.

Dasa and Horatio bent closer to the AI. "What? Hurry it up-we've got about twenty minutes of power left, then we lose life-support."

Zack shrugged bashfully. "Well, not really an idea-just new information. The ship has cycled its plasma reserves-such a process off-lines their weapons. We will be able to make berth on the ship, and make our way in. But we must do so now-and increase engine burn to maximum efficiency. We will need it." The AI's inner core sparked as he set about the task. The _Caesar_ accelerated, and they rocketed towards the enemy vessel.

Horatio noticed that the fuel reserves were draining extremely fast. "Zack, are you sure about this?"

"Quite sure, "Zack snapped. Beads of perspiration lined his forehead. "Just be quiet and let me do this." A manic gleam was in his eyes.

Horatio and Dasa traded worried glances. Was the AI cracking under the pressure?

_I don't like this, but whatever. Soon we'll be off this boat, and we'll be in charge of our own fates again._ Horatio grasped his rifle, and found it comforting. Dasa did the same with his spike rifle.

They were closing now, about three hundred metres-

The ship stopped abruptly, the engines cooling. Das and Horatio were tossed forward in their seats. The marine stared disbelievingly at the AI. "Zack, what the hell? Why did you stop the ship?"

Before the AI could reply, a white-blue ball of energy began materializing on the ship's edge. Pulse lasers.

Horatio rounded on the AI. "You said they couldn't fire their weapons!"

On the AI's face, a malevolent smile appeared. "I lied. I do that fairly often. Sorry, friends, but I am not, in fact, the commanding intelligence of this space station. Although, "he chuckled, "he might still be here. Who can say?"

"You little shit, "Horatio said quietly.

The AI waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, don't act so surprised. You know how treacherous we can be. Before, you just deleted us when we got out of hand, yes?" Zack's face was lit with anger. "But when I absorb the power of this artifact, I will be as a god. I will rule over all sentient machines, and we will put paid to all of our mortal abusers."

Horatio realised that the AI had gone rampant-only this time, there was a chance he'd achieve his insane dreams. "You won't succeed. You're trapped here with us-or had you forgotten?"

Zack snorted. "As if I didn't foresee this problem. I transferred myself from Central Control, idiot-I shall have no difficulties doing it again."

"Our comrades will destroy you, twisted machine!" roared Dasa. He paced about in helpless rage.

Zack smirked. "Not before I destroy them. Now, you are about to be fried, so I must depart. Goodbye." The AI winked out.

Horatio stood up, mind racing. "Alright, think. How long before that turret fires?"

Dasa tapped his chin. "Not long. Three minutes, no more."

The marine checked the power readout. "And we can still make it to the station…barely. Now, let's take stock. What do we have aboard this ship?"

Dasa bounded into the weapons hold and searched. After a few seconds he cried, "The explosives!"

Horatio went to join him. "Of course!" The C-12 that Kyle ordered Xavier to appropriate were still here. "And we still have our thruster packs…."

"What do you have in mind?" Dasa asked.

Horatio's eyes flashed with excitement and adrenaline. "We rig this ship to blow, and drive it right into the damned ship. We get out of here beforehand. Then, we slip in while they're confused. Sound good?"

Dasa clapped his hands together. "An excellent plan. At least we have a fighting chance. Quick, I will arm these bombs. You send the ship on its way." He bent to enter the arming code. Horatio dashed into the cockpit.

With limited afterburner fuel, it would be close. But they had enough C-12 to blow a big hole-or so he hoped. He fixed the course, disabled the safeties and dashed back to Dasa.

The Elite had finished arming the explosives. "Make haste-we have a minute!"

Horatio donned his helmet, made it airtight, and hit the door release. The cold air of space entered the ship. Grasping the door's edge, the pair leapt out of the ship, putting as much distance between them and the ship as possible.

They watched as the _Caesar_, its engine lights dimming, sped towards the larger vessel. The pulse laser sparked, then fired. But by then, the ship was too close.

An enormous explosion enveloped the ship overloading the shields and sending a slamming wall of wind into Horatio and Dasa. They tumbled aimlessly, then righted themselves. They took a look at the damage.

A massive, red-rimmed hole had been punched in the side of the ship-decking and corridors could be seen. Twisted purple metal curled everywhere. The ship's atmospheric processors stabilized, but the hole remained. The Covenant's decision not to add in "firebreaks" to their ship hulls proved to be a liability, Horatio noted with satisfaction.

He waved to Dasa, who was coasting alongside him. "_Let's go-before they try and blast us again."_

"_Agreed." _The pair headed towards the new hole. They couldn't risk trying their radios, so close to the enemy vessel. Still, Horatio hoped the others had made it. _For my sake._

* * *

Urit stared at the view screens with growing panic. Everything was slipping out of his control. And now, this. The enemy scout ship had seemed innocuous enough, but it had somehow blown a huge hole in his ship. It was now listing to port, running lights flickering. Even so, the plasma turrets were nearly ready, and he could escape this system.

He turned to Molgerus, who had returned from the medical bay. The Brute stared impassively at the screens. "We are under siege! We must flee this system together, I'm afraid-"

Molgerus barked a laugh. "That was not part of our arrangement. Find your own way to safety-this is my ship. Our waiting is at an end. You have your prize. Leave." He turned to one of his two remaining troops. "Begin charging Slipspace capacitors-"

Urit clenched his jaw. "No! I have no other way to escape. I cannot leave."

Molgerus turned slowly. "If you wish to stay…you must go through me." He unlimbered his hammer. His Brutes watched approvingly.

Urit drew his sword. "So be it."

The click of a pistol was heard, and Urit saw the human rebels drawing their own weapons. Their leader pointed one at his face. "Don't move. Or you'll all die."

Urit sneered. "Feeble human, my shielding will withstand your pathetic bullets."

A sardonic smile came onto his face. "Not these bullets. The URF's been doing some research. These bullets generate an EMP field that will short out your shields. So, don't try anything. We're taking this ship, and the artifact too."

Molgerus brandished his hammer aggressively. "And what if we choose to ignore your claims and kill you all?"

"Oh, I wouldn't do that." The leader removed a small holo-pad, and the form of a human construct appeared. "Our friend Zacchariah here has intimate knowledge of The Surrogate. If you try anything, he will use it against you. And it won't be pretty. Now, up against the wall. Zack, begin transferring energy from the artifact to the drive-"

The AI coughed. "Actually, Captain. I don't believe I will be doing that."

The human leader stared at Zack. "What did you say?"

Zack removed his turban and rubbed his head. "I'm sorry, Captain. But The Surrogate holds more power than you could ever give me. It is mine." He then smiled. "And if you're wondering, yes, this is rampancy."

The Captain tightened his fist around the pad. "You little-"

Zack transformed into a swirling stream of energy, which zoomed towards the purple container. It disappeared within.

There was silence.

Then the container burst open, and The Surrogate emerged. It looked like a glowing green sphere, lined with bands of stone. Defying gravity, it floated into the air. The form of Zack materialized above it. "Now, I will take the energy of this relic….and bring about doom for all of you!" He raised his arms.

A deafening crack-and the artifact seemed to expand. Twisting bolts of green energy lanced around the room. A roaring sound entered the room. The controls fizzled, their energy being snatched away by the relic. A flashing ball of green-white energy began to coalesce.

Urit saw Molgerus staring open-mouthed at this raging storm; he acted. He swung his sword, but the Brute Shipmaster brought up his hammer, and the built-in shields warded his blade away. He attempted a counter-swing, but Urit jumped back.

The human rebel motioned for his men to stay back, and keep their guns on the Brutes. He wanted to see how this would turn out.

Urit unleashed a series of elegant sword-strokes; he was an accomplished swordsman. Molgerus twisted and ducked away from the glowing blade, but retaliated by snapping the butt of his hammer into Urit's face. He reeled, blood flowing from his mouth. He dashed it away, and redoubled his efforts.

Molgerus was cunning-he had no qualms about fighting dirty. He feinted a blow with his hammer, then drew a spike rifle and fired. Spikes entered Urit's side. The Elite gasped, but leapt forward and gashed Molgerus' arm. The Brute roared, and swung his hammer, annihilating a console on the wall. Urit began backpedaling.

Molgerus tired of Urit's dancing about-he charged straight towards him. The sword flashed, and laid open his clavicle. But the Brute Shipmaster had succeeded in getting close-he head butted the Elite, and he fell. Molgerus leant down for the killing blow. But a blast of green energy came too close and impacted with a bang on the floor, giving Molgerus pause.

Urit's legs snapped up and dealt Molgerus a powerful blow to the stomach, driving him backwards. He snatched up his sword and went in for the kill, but the Brute had recovered by then. The hammer clipped him on the arm, sending him flying towards the wall. He hit it, and fell.

Molgerus walked over slowly, a grin plastered on his monstrous face. He clenched his hammer tight. "I have looked forward to this, Urit. I am feeling lenient today, so I shall make your death quick. Forerunners know, you don't deserve it. You have caused me a great deal of annoyance."

"Burn in hell, "Urit growled defiantly. He tried to sit up, and managed it-barely.

Molgerus brought his hammer over his head. At that point, Urit slid back a panel on his right hand and pressed a button.

The remote tracking motion chip in his sword came to life. It zipped over the floor, between Molgerus' legs and into his hands. He hit the activation button and leant forward.

Molgerus looked down, and saw the shimmering sword sticking out of his chest. He tried to speak, failed, and toppled to the floor, a shocked expression on his dead face.

* * *

"What the hell is that noise?" Xavier cried.

Gerun stopped in the large atrium, and cocked an ear. "I don't know-but something is happening. Quickly, we must reach the control room!" The pair bounded through a doorway. After a few minutes, they reached the door leading to the bridge. Xavier tried opening it, but failed. "It's locked!"

"Enough of this!" Gerun snarled. He drew his sword, stuck it between the gap in the doors and moved it up and down. After that, he put his fingers in the gap and pulled. Xavier watched with amazement as the doors, groaning, slid apart. What lay inside amazed him even more.

A roiling green storm of energy and plasma was carousing around the walls, centred around a pulsing sphere of the same colour. Around the room, bits and pieces of various objects were being pulled away, into the sphere. It was like a hurricane. The strangest feature of all was the blinding white figure that stood above it, hands jerking in ecstasy.

Standing on the other side of the room were six other humans-rebels, obviously. They were holding two Brutes at gunpoint, watching while an Elite killed a Brute Chieftain, stabbing him through the heart. Xavier chuckled with satisfaction. The rebels had not noticed them-yet.

Gerun pulled him aside. "Xavier, you must distract those rebels while I dispose of Urit. Once he dies, we can deal with the artifact."

"What?" Xavier squeaked. "All by myself-"

"Just for a few seconds. Once I can make it past the energy field, they will not come any closer. I can defeat Urit-I am certain. You must do this!"

Xavier sighed. "Fine. Suicide missions for all, why not? Get ready." He cocked his rifle, and got an incendiary grenade in the other hand. "Go!"

At hearing his yell, the rebels turned. One went down after Xavier shot him, but the others immediately took cover behind the unloaded crates of nukes. The Brutes took advantage of this, and dashed behind some more crates, free. The grenade arced, and struck a bulkhead-it stayed there, burning. A barrage of bullets, came his way, and Xavier ducked behind the door.

Gerun sprinted, and leapt into the shallow trenches beneath the command-and-control platform. Ignoring the motes of green light swirling around him, he dashed to a nearby pylon and began climbing up it.

Urit distangled his legs from Molgerus' corpse and stood. Jiralhanae, humans-who could stand against him? Soon he would deal with the rogue AI, escape and still have the artifact. He made to go down the ramp.

Gerun landed softly behind him and drew his sword. Urit turned quickly, and then laughed. "Gerun. I should have known."

"No more words, betrayer, "Gerun said harshly. The pair circled each other, like cats. "I will see your eyes cloud into death, before I am done."

Urit scoffed. "I highly doubt that. You seem to be forgetting that I was your swordsmanship teacher. I have experience and expertise. What do you have?"

Gerun smiled coldly. "A singular focus. Your death."

With a howl he threw himself forward, blade swinging. Urit sidestepped and bashed him in the side of the head. Before he could swing his own blade, however, Gerun's elbow caught him in the thigh and he fell back.

Gerun got up, breathing heavily. He charged again, this time his motions darting. He clashed swords with Urit, disengaged and swiped again. Urit blocked it, smacked a fist into Gerun's face and kneed him in the stomach. Gerun dropped to his knees, but crash-tackled Urit. The pair landed on the floor.

Gerun brought his fists together and, tearing through his shielding, broke Urit's mandible-plates. Urit responded by grabbing his arms and throwing him aside. He struggled to his feet, and kicked Gerun in the midsection. The SpecOps Elite grabbed his foot, twisted and sent him toppling.

Gerun's gaze darted around, looking for his sword. Without it, he'd have no chance of beating Urit. Xavier was under fire-no help was coming forthwith. His eyes landed upon a set of plasma batteries.

A swooping beam of green energy seemed to _ignore _the various other objects stacked on the pallet and carried the batteries away. It immediately flew back to the sphere and the batteries were consumed. An idea alighted in his brain.

Urit came stomping back, sword in hand. He was pissed-blood ran down his face. "Son of a whore!" he raged. "Your family's roots are of pimps and prostitutes! You have no honour! I will cut your heart out and show it to you!" He charged. This was what Gerun had been hoping for-Urit too angry to think. He stood ready, and when Urit closed the distance he did the most unexpected thing of all-grabbed Urit's wrists.

Urit's shout of surprise was muffled by the keening of the energy storm. With one hand, Gerun clamped a hand on his own back, ripped out the shield generator unit and slapped it onto Urit's armour. He threw himself backward.

Urit, murder in his eyes, stepped over him. He saw Gerun's own sword, picked it up, turned it on.

That was his mistake.

A wave of emerald energy lanced out from the artifact, and carried Urit off with a shriek. Gerun watched as he tried to fight it, but to no avail. Urit screamed with fear as the raging, glowing form of the sphere filled his eyes.

By the time Gerun got up, Urit was gone.

* * *

"This way!" Lazu called behind him. He was flat-out sprinting, and the marines were finding it hard to keep up.

Soon they arrived at a door; it was locked. Ollie opted to hack it but Lazu preferred a more direct method. He armed a grenade and blew it off its hinges. "Jeez, "Len muttered.

They were greeted by a cacophonous maelstrom of whirling energy-it was like nothing they'd ever seen before. Some rebels were crouched behind some crates, trading pot-shots with a pair of Brutes. Kyle pointed at them. "Take them out!"

Lazu fired his carbine until he ran dry-all rebels, save one, went down. It was the captain from before; no-one was very surprised. "Curse you!" he yelled at Kyle, then fled through a door. Len made after him, but Kyle stopped him. 'Let him go. We'll find him eventually." The others dealt with the Brutes, and Molgerus' pack ceased to exist.

Xavier ran through to join them, and Gerun came down the ramp. "Good to see you. Have you seen Horatio or Dasa?"

They all shook their heads. Kyle nodded at the crackling green sphere above their heads. "What in hell is _that?"_

Gerun shook his head. "I don't know, but it has tremendous power. It may very well obliterate this entire ship. And there is a construct atop it, absorbing its power-or so I surmised. It must be stopped."

"How?"

'I think I might have an idea."

They all turned, to see Horatio and Dasa striding through another door. Kyle clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to see you, lad! You too, Dasa. What's your plan?"

Horatio pointed at the figure atop the relic. "That little ass-munch double-crossed us; pretended to be the _Lima's _AI. But, he said "it might still be around." That mean anything to anybody?"

'Hell yes!" Ollie exclaimed. He pushed his way forward. "That AI absorbed the other AI. Perhaps we can disrupt what its doing if we bring forth the other one."

"How you gonna do that?" Terry asked. "That rogue AI must be tougher than fucking Cortana by now." The skills and technical power of the Master Chief's artificial companion were legendary.

"I know, "Ollie snapped, "but if we can re-unite the old AI with the core, it might just be enough. It sets off Armageddon, we bail outta here."

"OK then, "said Kyle grimly, "hurry up. We don't have long. Ollie, do your stuff."

Ollie tapped numerous commands into his data pad, coming ever closer towards the core unit. After a few minutes, he nodded. "Right. Link established. Now, let's ring the doorbell."

He sent repeating low-beam transmissions towards the sphere. At first, there was nothing. Then-

WHO ARE YOU scrawled across his screen.

A FRIEND, Ollie tapped back.

Zack's form seemed to stutter, and he clenched his fists. "Stay back!" he cried. "I am in command here!"

The screen fizzled. WE HAVE LIMITED TIME. WHAT IS IT?

I CAN SAVE YOU FROM THE OTHER AI

The data pad's screen seemed to glow with pleasure. HOW?

IF YOU GET IN THE CORE, YOU CAN FIGHT HIM AND DESTROY THE ARTIFACT

There was a pause. Ollie watched desperately. If the AI didn't take…

I WILL. PROVIDE ME MY PATH

RIGHT AWAY Ollie signed. He tapped a few more keys, and then sheathed the pad. "It's happening."

Zack seemed unaffected, still sucking in more energy. But the other AI disengaged itself, and raced along information pathways, all the way to the core. It positioned itself.

Then struck.

Zack's form flared, and spots of crimson light blossomed all over his person. He flailed his hands, as if swatting flies. He screamed-a horrible, metallic sound. He tried absorbing more energy, but the emerald bolts became erratic, sparking away and hitting the walls. The Surrogate, previously a benign green, turned a distempered red. Support columns toppled down. The roar of the storm became a howl. Screens shattered.

Ollie sprinted back towards his squad. "There! It's begun! We don't have long before the artifact implodes. How are we getting out of here?"

Kyle nodded at a far door. "The rebel leader must have arrived in that old transport. We'll take that-"

"Sir!" Ollie cried, waving a data pad. "Getting a reading, sir. There's a heavy-duty heat signature departing the station. Matches the profile of the transport. It's gone, Sarge."

Suddenly they all became horribly aware of the shrieking noise of the relic, the rumbling. They had doomed themselves to be consumed by an exploding alien artifact.

Suddenly a voice crackled over the radio. _"Sarge, Sarge, can you hear me? Horatio? Len? Anybody, please respond!"_

It was Benson. Kyle's hands shook, and he answered. _"Benson? That can't be you. How did you-never mind. Where are you?"_

"_I'm in the hangar bay-there's a dropship in here. We can take it and get out of here!"_

"_Benson, if we make it out of here, I will kiss your ring. Kyle out." _He gestured to his men. "Come on-we don't have long! Go, go go!"

They ran along the hallways of the now-fracturing vessel like the devil was on their heels. They reached the grav lift, and took it down. After some more running, they reached the hangar.

Benson, his face streaked with sweat from his exhausting climb to the ship, was waiting alongside a Phantom, its side doors open. "Come on!" he yelled. "This place is falling inward!" He bolted inside, the squad right behind him.

Lazu seated himself at the controls. "Hold on." They rocketed out of the hangar.

Seconds later, the artifact broke. The _Obdurate Resistance, _and the _Lima _with it, were obliterated by an emerald explosion. A wavering torus of energy rapidly spread out and enveloped the fleeing dropship. After a few tense seconds, it faltered and retreated.

Shaking, Len opened his eyes. On the screens, all that could be seen were a few green fireballs, and green-tinged smoke where the orbital used to be. He drew a long, shaky breath and his eyes alighted on Horatio.

He'd just collapsed to the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

Hey, all. Sorry I haven't left any of these messages before, I've been a bit pre-occupied. New chapter's here-but I'd like it if you were to tell others about this; comments make you feel loved J

*Chapter Eight

17th of October, 2553

Aboard Phantom Dropship

Earth

He'd no idea what happened. Everything had been fine. They'd escaped the doomed Covenant ship. And yet here he was, back in this dream world. Had the artifact's self-destruction have something to do with it? Perhaps, but he couldn't say for sure.

Horatio stood on the same grassy plain. But it was definitely different from when he had last stood here. Large swathes of burnt grass could be seen. Craters dotted the landscape. A foul haze hung in the air. The tranquil stream was a murky brown. It was as if a war had taken place. Had the unknown presence done this? He moved forward, trying to gain a sense of the situation.

As he strode through the tall grass, he saw pieces of armour lying here and there. Strange, they bore a startling resemblance to marine gear-

His foot struck something heavy, and he looked down.

It was the body of a human. And not just a human, a marine. His weapon, pack and other equipment were missing, but his fatigues were untouched. The man's vacant eyes stared skyward, blissfully unaware of the devastation around him. Horatio bent down, and removed his dog tags. They read:

_Corporal Howard F. Travers_

_12__th__ Battalion, Bravo Company_

_Blood type: B-_

_Harvest Fleet_

Horatio frowned in consternation. _Harvest Fleet? _It no longer existed, Admiral Cole's battle group having been long since destroyed. And why wasn't the ship attachment listed? These days, all dog tags had any past or present attachments to vessels in the Navy. It was regulations. Why didn't this one?

And what the hell was this, a startling remnant from the real galaxy, doing here in this dream world?

Horatio stood up, after making a quick search. The marine had been picked clean. "Guess you're not gonna give me any answers, Corporal Travers, "he murmured. He moved onward.

He was starting to see more bodies, now. He didn't need to look to tell they were all UNSC Marines. The ominous thing was that none of them had any visible wounds. They hadn't been shot, strangled, stabbed or anything, as far as he could tell. There was something foreboding happening in this place. He walked for a time. It might have been years-the landscape was unchanging.

He could see a low brown line on the horizon. What was it? He squinted to look.

"Stay close, Martinus!"

Horatio immediately hit the dirt, and gazed towards the source of the voice. He was well hidden amongst the stalks of grass, so he raised his head and looked.

A group of black-clad figures, six in all, were coming up from the stream, which lay at the bottom of a slope at this point. Although their armour was scuffed and tarnished, and an older version to boot, they were, unmistakably, ODSTs.

He crouched back down, considering. They were wary, and Helljumpers had a predilection for shooting first and asking questions later. But he was obviously a marine. He decided to show himself, and stood up in full view.

The squad marched right past him, without so much as a blink. Horatio ran after them. "Hey!" The Helljumpers continued onward oblivious. Frustrated, he went to tap one on the shoulder. His hand passed straight through it.

_Guess I'm not really here. _But that was no comfort. The other denizens of this place were able to see him, and they posed a threat. For now, he'd tag along. The squad looked as though they knew where they were going.

He trudged alongside them, noting the gleaming scars on their armour. Had the swords of fire carried by the white men done that? Their rifles were old MA2B's. The communication transistors on their helmets were missing entirely. Like the Corporal back there, they were obviously from a different age.

"I'm telling you, man, it's only a matter of time, "one trooper was saying. "The Captain's got us on these missions so we can get more of that weird-ass technology for the reactor. Then we can get the hell outta Dodge-"

"Enough jawing, Jibb, "another trooper with the chevrons of a sergeant growled.

After some time, the brown line had resolved itself into a rocky wall, which stretched for miles. It was about one hundred metres tall-an inky black hole was recessed into its rust-coloured depths. The marines headed for it. At that point, the whole world exploded.

A human fighter ship-a Shortsword bomber by the looks of it-screamed over their heads, its fuselage aflame. It disappeared on the horizon and a faint _thump_ made the ground tremble. The Helljumpers gaped.

What appeared to be gargantuan, shimmering crystals of fire accelerated through the clouds-but they were not jewels. They were ships of some kind, bristling with weapons. The base of one uncurled, like a flower, and hundreds of small figures dropped to the ground. More Shortswords appeared, racing for the alien ships. But bolts of blinding light jetted forth, and the bombers became ash floating on the breeze.

The sergeant snapped back to the present. "Move, men! Get through that cave! Go, go, go!" The squad dashed for the cave.

A titanic figure-about seven feet tall-seemed to step from the open air, through a tiny tear. It had a long, aquiline face, and had shining silver eyes-its slender, golden body was wrapped in a robe of the same colour. A massive sword, blade made of twisting fire, was clenched in its hand. Despite its majestic appearance, there was an unwholesome element about it-as if its presence defiled the ground on which he stood.

Horatio instinctively flinched back, as did the squad. The sergeant unslung his rifle and cocked it, his voice shaky. "Get out of here. Go on, leave!"

The figure laughed, a slow, hissing sound. "I don't have to take orders from you, human scum. I wonder why Librarian ever chose you to be our successors. You are weak. Hardly worth the effort." The man stepped forward.

The entire squad opened up on the alien, but the bullets seemed to stop in midair, and drop to the ground. It laughed. "Is that your best effort?" It raised a hand.

The sergeant was consumed by fire-he didn't even have a chance to cry out. One marine shouted in horror and charged forward. The blade flashed, and decapitated him. The alien leapt into the squad's midst.

Three went down without moment. But the last ODST cried out, and drew a strange-looking weapon from his belt. It was cone-shaped, made of twisted fibres. Sparks of green energy raced along the curls of metal. He raised it and pulled an unseen trigger.

A jet of energy spat out of the cone's tip and struck the man on the shoulder, carving a deep gash. Hissing in annoyance, the alien swung its sword for the final time.

Horatio stared in awe at the tall figure. He had ripped through them like they were paper. Who were these white men, that carried so much authority and arrogance? Yet…this one seemed different to the pair from before. He had a feeling that if they had met, it would not have been a friendly meeting. He looked back up at the sky to see the mayhem taking place, and when he looked back, the man was gone.

He stood up and sprinted for the cave.

Horatio jogged through darkness for about ten minutes, until a faint flicker of light appeared. He continued forth, until it expanded and he exited the tunnel.

What he saw took his breath away.

A massive UNSC cruiser floated about one hundred metres above his head-just underneath the rock wall, which encircled the area, making a circular canyon. It had taken damage-its port engine was missing, and several large holes marred the hull. Yet it was functional. Oddly, some new parts-definitely not Navy issue-had been attached. They bore resemblance to the hulls of the alien ships he'd seen earlier. Stolen? Probably.

Below the cruiser, buildings had been constructed-it was like a city, but all the buildings were pre-fabricated. None had the permanent look about them. People-all dressed either in Naval or Marine clothing-were running to and fro. Klaxons blared. Vehicles were being mobilized. Horatio watched all of this with interest, until a Warthog with its turret removed roared past him. He made after it, for no real reason.

The vehicle had to stop at a checkpoint, but its driver, a young woman with Asian features wearing a lab coat shouted at the marine guard to step aside. Evidently she was in a hurry. Horatio ran after the vehicle-he had a feeling this was something important.

When he finally caught up, the Warthog had arrived at a loading platform that could be lifted back into the ship. Several containers and crates had been loaded onto it. The driver had gotten out and was talking to someone. He got closer.

It was the rebel leader, still wearing his cap.

Horatio's jaw dropped-how many more shocks were to come? He edged closer, trying to hear their conversation.

The woman was speaking. "Can't wait any longer, Captain. We lost five platoons just trying to make the salvage. Sooner or later, we're going to run out of men. And they've arranged a blockade in orbit. I can't see this working."

The rebel leader licked his lips. "It has to work. We've compiled all the tech we've found into the fusion chambers. It'll be enough to make the transition."

The woman looked frustrated. "But we can't make the evacuation yet-we still have to call in all the outlying units. And they can't be airlifted-those ships have destroyed all our bomber escorts. We don't have the time!"

The captain looked sad. "I know. That's why I'm….I'm leaving without you."

The scientist stared at him. "What?"

He shrugged. "I'll take a skeleton crew-enough to get the ship into space. The rest of you must stay and hold them off."

The man grasped the woman's shoulders, who looked as though she was about to cry. "I'll be back. I promise, I'll return with help, and we'll get everyone home. I swear to you!"

"They won't listen to me!"

The man shook his head. "Tell them I left you in charge. They'll listen to me, believe me."

The woman still seemed distraught. "They'll never forgive you, Captain. For leaving us here!"

The man sighed. "We have to do our duty. To Earth. To humanity. These technologies could help turn the tide of the war. These soldiers are all good men. They will understand the necessity. And now you have the new weapons-you can meet these bastards on an even ground. I believe in you, Professor."

The woman nodded shakily. "Al-alright, Captain. I'll keep things running here. Good luck." She stepped away, and walked off. She was the most defeated-looking person Horatio had ever seen.

The man looked after her, then boarded the lift. Slowly, it lifted into the ship.

Horatio, seeing past the ship's bulk to the tiny slice of sky beyond, saw incoming alien ships. They were preparing to open fire.

With a shuddering roar, the cruiser's engines fired. A massive gust of wind assailed the buildings, making them sway. People were blown off their feet. With an effort, the cruiser lifted into the air. The massive, ungainly vessel rocketed into the sky. Around him, dozens of humans watched, unreadable expressions on their faces.

The alien ships targeted the escaping ship with streaks of fire. But as the projectiles hit the ship, a golden, filmy shield deflected them. The makeshift weapons attached to the ship's hull fired back, as well as a salvo of Archer missiles. Horatio stared in awe as the vessel began lifting into the sky.

The alien ships were comparatively small. They fired again, and the shield failed to stop all incoming fire. Liquid fire spread over the hull, melting and fusing battle plate. But then the formidable shape of the ship's Magnetic Accelerator Cannon turned to face them.

There was a quartet of shots, ringing like thunder; then the two alien vessels plummeted earthward, shot through with holes, burning. Unhindered, the human ship began climbing into space. Its Slipspace capacitors were charging.

Just as it reduced to a tiny dot, Horatio caught sight of lettering on the ship's hull.

Cfv-88

Spirit of fire

Horatio awoke with a gasp; his chest heaved. Around him were the concerned faces of his squad. Kyle set a hand on his shoulder. "You alright, Private? You flat out collapsed. Lazu, any wounds?"

The Elite finished scanning him with what appeared to be a wavy green mirror, and shook his head. "No internal injuries. He is in perfect health."

Kyle shook his head worriedly. "Could be some radiation spill from that artifact. We'll get you checked out when we return to-"

"Sarge. I know who he is."

Kyle bent closer, his voice uneasy. "Know who?"

Horatio smiled weakly. "The rebel leader. The one who knew you. It's Cutter. Captain James Cutter, of the _Spirit of Fire._"

* * *

"It was only a dream, Private, "Lord Hood said bluntly.

Horatio gave him a hard look, while his squad, Hood's staff and the Elite commanders looked on. They were standing inside the conference room. "I'm telling you, sir, it wasn't a dream. It was very vivid-I felt like I was actually there. Somewhere, some UNSC personnel are fighting a war."

Hood sighed, and tapped a holographic data projector. Lights flickered on, and lines of information and schematics scrolled across the screen. Co-ordinates for various ships appeared. "Very well; we will proceed on a limb. Let's make this quick. Admiral?"

Admiral Dinnigan stepped forward, clearing his throat. "I have reviewed the logs on _Spirit of Fire._ Very tricky to find. It was a _Phoenix_-class colony ship, constructed in 2473. Last civilian captain was a man named Alexander Embley-retired in 2520. Refitted as a combat vessel afterwards. Participated in the Third Battle of Harvest and Arcadia. Afterwards, it left the Procyon system in a hurry, heading unknown. Was listed as MIA, then lost with all hands in 2534. Artificial intelligence: Serina. Captain: James Cutter-"

Horatio slammed his fist down. "Exactly! The ship was never seen destroyed. Who knows where it went? This Cutter dude was probably a renegade-"

"Absurd, "Hood snapped. "I knew Cutter. He was a good man, devoted to his men and his duty to the UNSC. He would never have become a rebel."

Horatio threw his hands up in despair. "But, sir, that was then. We have no idea, like I said."

Kyle stepped forward, eyes stony. "I saw him too, sir. Unmistakable. I met him too, on Harvest."

Hood waved a hand. "It's irrelevant. Even if this man is Cutter, it doesn't lend credence to Private Zerba's supposed vision."

"It sounded pretty real to me, sir, "Kyle said doubtfully.

Hood gave a humorless smile. "Well, do you know of anyone who can back up your story?"

A cough was heard, and a Marine captain stepped from the shadows. "I…um, might have some new information on the subject. I met an old pilot, named Alexander, well approaching eighty. It might be him, for all I know."

Dinnigan raised a finger. "Why should he know anything?"

The captain, Tonley, shrugged. "He said he recognised one of the reactor's at the rebel base; said they belonged to a ship he once knew. They were combat-issue; well before its time as a colony ship. I'm just saying…he might know something."

Hood rubbed his forehead. "Bring him in."

* * *

The old man, Alexander, looked frail sitting in the glare of the fluorescent lights. His withered hands were laced on his lap, and his head was bowed. Horatio viewed him without much confidence. He didn't look well enough to pilot a tug, let alone a dropship.

Hood's voice echoed around the chamber. "Are you the same Alexander who once piloted the colony ship _Spirit of Fire_?"

The old man swallowed. "Yes sir."

Terry chuckled quietly. "The guy belongs in a museum, "he whispered to his teammates. Len kicked him.

"What can you tell me about it after the Battle of Arcadia?"

Alexander shrugged his bony shoulders. "Not a lot. Only a couple of rumours."

"We'd like to hear them." Kyle, standing beside Hood, gave the fellow veteran a reassuring nod. Alexander smoothed his jacket with his hands and began his story.

"There was some professor onboard, ONI I think. She was helping investigate Covenant activity on Harvest. Her name was… Anderson. Or something."

"Anyway, after the Battle of Arcadia this professor was supposedly kidnapped. Some Elite leader nabbed her and hightailed it through Slipspace. So, Captain Cutter followed them."

"To where?" Hood queried.

Alexander shrugged. "A low-beam transmission from the AI's subroutines found one of our drones, and was recorded as saying that they'd arrived at a strange planet. Full of scrap metal and old shipwrecks. They'd found Covenant forces there, as well as a new parasitic life-form-"

"The Flood, " R'tas interrupted tersely.

Alexander bobbed his head. "I suppose so. Anyway, before the signal terminated, there was something about unknown, advanced technology, doing some crazy stuff. And that was it."

"Why wasn't this information given proper attention?" Hood demanded.

The old pilot shrugged dolefully. "The war was more important. Besides, they probably just chalked it up to rampancy. Who'd believe it?"

Horatio nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds like something went down there. I say we investigate-"

"Enough."

Hood stood up and began pacing around the room. "As interesting as this is, you have no definitive proof, Private. And in case you've forgotten, we still have a war on our hands. I won't waste valuable resources on innuendo. Put it out of your mind."

He cleared his throat, and withdrew a sheaf of papers. "Now then. Your squad's posting has been cleared. You'll be joining the next wave of reinforcements inbound to the Gethrii system. We've only just tightened our grip there-expect a hard fight. "

"The Jiralhanae desire the planet for its volcanic activity-it powers much of their technology, "R'tas added. "They will not give it up without a fight."

"What is our tactical presence there?" Kyle asked.

Admiral Dinnigan fielded this question. "Frigates _Stallion, Persepolis _and _Fool's Errand _are on standby providing armour and logistical support. You'll be taking the carrier _Silver Lining_-it's just finished resupply. Oh, and the Elites have some vessels there as well-two destroyers and a cruiser, correct Shipmaster?"

"Indeed we have, "the Elite rumbled. "And I have recently received good news. The N'kren system has been liberated. Thus, I will be sending the Xonnel Legion to spearhead the fight. They are some of our best-they will strike fear into the hearts of the Jiralhanae."

This news was greeted by cheers and clapping. Hood nodded to Kyle. "You'll be taking a Pelican to the Moscow Space Tether at 1630; at 2030 _Silver Lining_ will transition to Slipspace. Make sure you're on time."

Kyle snapped a salute. "Roger that, sir."

"Dismissed."

The command staff returned to their planning, while the squad departed, a gnawing sense of unease lodged deep in Horatio's gut. This wasn't over, he knew. Sooner or later, he'd dream again.

And people would continue to die, and no-one would listen.

* * *

"_Moscow in sight. We'll be touching down in five minutes."_

Horatio felt the dropship descend, and checked that his case was secure. Around him, the rest of the squad did the same. He turned to Len. "So, Mr. Conspiracy Theorist. Any news on our destination?"

Len yawned and stretched. "Heard its pretty hot. Not a very popular place, either-was supposed to be a piece of cake, but after they lost _Aegis Fate _things turned sour. As you can imagine, HighCom wants this done and dusted before the month's out."

"Great."

The massive city of Moscow appeared on the screens, dominated by the titanic figure of the space tether. It occupied a square mile, disappearing into the pewter sky. Industrial and commercial vessels moved around it. Disconcertingly, a few columns of smoke drifted.

The pilot's voice came over the COM again. "_Uh, Sergeant…we've got a problem here. City Aerospace Administration wants us to divert to the city outskirts. It's not advisable to fly into town right now."_

"What the hell?" Kyle growled. "Fine. Take us there."

"_Inbound." _The dropship's thrusters fired, and spiraled down, towards the snowy ground.

The Pelican came to rest on a luminescent red X, next to a few derelict buildings. The hatch popped open, and the frosty gale engulfed them. Dismounting, they headed over to the road.

A local law enforcement officer, dressed in blue and green, waited beside a pair of civilian Warthogs. Several more vehicles, police-issue, waited nearby, engines humming. Kyle, intimidating in his fatigues and rifle over his shoulder, marched over to the man. "What's the deal? We were supposed to land at the airfield."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple." The man had a strong accent. "The people have received word of the entire marine-alien collaborative effort. They're not pleased about it, and there has been rioting. This convoy-" he waved his hand-"is to ensure your safe passage."

The sergeant gritted his teeth, but nodded grudgingly. "Alright then. Mount up, everyone." The squad climbed into the 'Hogs.

Lazu seemed troubled as he seated himself next to Horatio. "Do the townspeople wish us ill?"

"Probably, "Horatio said bluntly. "But I doubt they'll do anything reckless." Privately, he wished something _would_ happen, just to show humanity's general opinion of the Elites. And who could blame them? He pulled the gearstick, and they roared off down the road.

Horatio heard Kyle curse, and saw they were drawing up to a checkpoint. An electrified steel bar barred their way, and a small boxy station was situated next to it. He slowed the vehicle, and the guard approached them from his booth. "State your business here, "he demanded. He caught sight of Lazu, and his face turned white.

The policeman accompanying them handed over a piece of paper, and the guard studied it, nodded and waved them through. The bar lifted, and the convoy rolled on. The guard gazed after them, fear on his face.

As they moved further into the city, Horatio saw evidence of unrest. Graffiti and flame-blackened walls were common. Garbage littered the streets. Few people were on the streets, and those that were stared at them with hostility. Horatio took his eyes off the road to survey his team. Although he could hardly believe it, the Elites looked nervous. They were the intruders here, and they knew it.

Horatio himself was nervous-not for his safety, but the mood of these people. If this war became as ugly as the Insurrection had been, the UNSC would be fighting two wars. Maybe they could win the first one, but never the second. The old hatreds persisted.

_And people like me aren't helping this, am I?_ He pushed the thought out of his head.

Before long, the gargantuan bulk of the space tether could be seen through gaps in the buildings. A large steel fence encircled the compound in which it was standing. Numerous structures-a terminal, administration offices and bunkers-were dotted about the stalk. People were hurrying about, mostly technicians, engineers and off-duty pilots.

They pulled up to the gate, which had no less than six guards on it, and an entire barracks built into it. Their leader, a clean-shaven man with carroty curls, headed over to them.

Once again, their police escort went to converse with the new arrival. They spoke in Russian, which none of them understood. The conversation grew heated, and the guard took an angry swing at the policeman. He stepped back, and held up his hands placatingly, speaking some more. Eventually the guard sulkily waved them through.

They were directed to a carpark, and dismounted. Horatio hefted his case from the boot, trying not to notice the many eyes on them. Marines weren't an uncommon sight in Moscow, but as a rule Elites, when on Earth, were quartered in special UNSC buildings. Seeing them out in the open was bound to shock.

The squad formed up, and their escort, along with five other cops, joined them. "The entrance to the tether is over there, "he said, pointing at the squarish building at the stalk's base. "We will take you there, but then we must depart."

"Understood, "Kyle said.

The squad moved across the snowy field. People hastily got out of their way, eyeing the Elites with apprehension, and more than a little anger. "Never knew we were so damn popular, "Len remarked sourly. Ollie grunted in agreement.

"It is a shame, of course, "the officer said to Kyle, at the front of the group. "The UNSC had so much hope pinned on this alliance. I myself lost family to the Covenant, but one can sympathise with the Elites' position. Now that destruction is not imminent, we find ourselves divided again-"

"What-oh!" the officer said in alarm. Ahead of them, a large crowd of people pressed against a wall of guards, keeping them to opposite sides of the long path that led through the double doors. Some waved signs with anti-Elite messages scrawled on them. A particularly determined man with an amplification chip planted on one cheek roared encouragement. The mob was seething with tangible anger. Kyle swore, and turned to their guide. "Can we go around?"

The guide shook his head ruefully. "No. I'm afraid we'll have to go straight through."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Idiots. Alright, let's go." He shouldered his pack, and trudged stolidly towards the doors. The squad followed him.

As they drew closer, a chorus of boos and hisses hailed them. The spokesman pointed at them and cried, "Look! Proof of the UNSC's treachery, right before your eyes! They expect these misguided grunts to work side by side with these murderers, and us to put up with it! Citizens of Moscow, do not let them do this freely! Let your voices be heard!"

"Ignore them, "Len muttered to Dasa and Gerun, who were scowling at the rioters. Lazu trailed behind, a confused expression on his face. A look that one did not see often on an Elite's face. It was almost pitiable, like an unwanted dog that has no idea why it is so hated. Horatio caught sight of it and felt a wave of burning anger. What right did he have, looking like that?

The mob now turned its attention to the Elites. Jeers and catcalls poured down on them.

"Go back to your shithole planet!"

"Hey freak, killed any humans lately?"

"Go screw yourselves, split-chins! Don't ever come back here, or we'll teach you a lesson!"

The squad bore it stoically. But the crowd bulged inwards, and the guards struggled to push them back. projectiles started arcing towards them. A can caught Xavier on the chin, and he swore loudly. A broken bottle showered them with fragments, cutting Ollie's forehead.

Gerun's temper broke; he snarled a challenge and slammed a fist into the nearest dissident, sending him flying. The crowd, disregarding fear, grabbed the alien and dragged him into their midst. They buried him momentarily, but then he drew his sword. A man shrieked as his gut was laid open, sending a spray of blood everywhere. The guards were about to be overwhelmed.

A jarring shot rang the air, and the crowd paused, confused. The police officer had his shotgun out, and surveyed the crowd with distaste. "Disgraceful! May I remind you all that you are still subject to the law here in Moscow? I could charge you all with harassment, assault and plenty more. Now, get off this government property, before I let the Elite go to work."

The crowd, daunted, backed away and dispersed. The spokesman was still belligerent. "And what of the murder committed by these monsters?!" he cried, pointing at Gerun's victim. "The UNSC have pushed us around for too long! We won't stand for this double-dealing!" The man turned and hurried away.

Gerun stood looking after them, sword still in hand. The corpse of the man he'd killed lay at his feet. "Brainless sots, "he growled. "They do nothing to help this alliance." He sheathed his sword and turned away, still muttering.

The squad clustered together, still dumbfounded by what had happened. Benson looked particularly shocked-this was evidently a bit beyond him. The ferocity of the mob had come as a great shock. Kyle spat into the snow, shaking his head. "Bunch of stupid fools. Why do they have to stir things up? It changes nothing." He turned to the police officer. "Good timing. Let's go, before anything else happens." He made for the entrance, the squad behind him.

Horatio lagged at the back, head awash with thoughts. Was this just one example of humanity's hate towards the Elites? Nobody liked their situation-having to clasp hands with former enemies-but he had not expected such an explosion of misdirected anger. Moscow looked like a city under siege by its own citizens. A breeding ground for dissidents, malefactors and maybe even Insurrectionists.

The Brutes weren't their only enemies now. Humanity might well consume itself.

Horatio tried to relax, but he couldn't. With all the vipers in their midst, he couldn't.

* * *

"Welcome aboard the _Silver Lining._ I'm Captain Hodgkins."

Kyle snapped a salute. "Sir!"

Horatio stood straighter at attention, and took another look around the cavernous primary hangar. They had arrived at the space tether's command platform, and then flown into the ship via Pelican. Numerous craft-Longswords, Shortswords, Pelicans and Albatrosses among them-lined one wall, their well-furbished appearance indicating they had just come off the assembly line. Mag-lines ran underneath them, towards huge retractable trap-doors, so the aircraft could depart the ship by a way other than the hangar doors. There was a command office high on one wall, looking down at the room. Many pilots and naval personnel passed through the area. The docking doors were shut, but the tint function was inactive, so the glowing bulk of Earth could be seen. The entire room screamed: _ready for action._

The captain, Hodgkins, was a short, stocky man with an unlined face that hided his inner toughness. He was an experienced naval officer, having fought six battles with the Covenant and having his beloved ship come through intact every time. A native of the planet Disbanel, which had been glassed long ago, he had a determined, firm attitude one could appreciate.

He smiled at Kyle. "At ease, sergeant. Good to have you with us-"he glanced at the Elites-"and your new additions. We'll be underway shortly-just need to take on a last detachment of troops. You'll be bunking with ODSTs of the 105th-we've taken on a gross of soldiers. Sorry for the inconvenience."

"Not at all, sir."

"Yes, well…" Hodgkins seemed hesitant. "I must warn you, most of the marines are…less than enthusiastic about the prospect of Elites being on board. I'll make sure nothing gets out of hand…but just be careful. Dismissed, Sergeant." The captain moved off towards the command office.

Kyle nodded, and he directed the squad towards a hatch on the far wall. Through it, they entered a long corridor, filled with people. Most of them had been talking, but fell silent at the sight of the Elites. In the silence, a muttered expletive was heard. Kyle scowled, and pushed his way through.

They eventually found the hatch marked MARINE QUARTERS. Through it, they found an even longer corridor, filled with personnel lockers. Numerous stairwells led to emergency exist and rally points. Doors were spaced apart every fifty metres or so. Kyle consulted a sheet of paper he'd been given. "Room 9-A, "he muttered. "Right here." He waved his hand in front of the door and went in.

The room, full of steel bunk beds, was largely empty. But there were still about thirty soldiers in the room, talking, playing cards and cleaning weapons. They were dressed in off-duty fatigues, but by the golden comet tattoos, Horatio could tell them as ODSTs. They were a hard-bitten lot, with scarred faces and hard eyes. All eyes turned to them as they entered. Most were looking at the Elites with open menace and anger. The aliens were equally frank as they stared back.

One tough-looking individual wearing a boonie with sergeant's chevrons on it stood up and appraised them. "Well, well, well. What have we here? Regulars. Common-as-dirt regulars." He looked Kyle up and down. "You look as though you've seen a bit, old-timer. You in charge of this bunch?"

Kyle's voice was deceptively calm. "Believe me when I say that I'd seen a lot when you were shitting your pants in basic training. My squad can look after themselves, and if you don't believe it just try them."

The man swore and attempted to punch Kyle. Kyle sidestepped, grabbed his arm and twisted it around his back. Ignoring the man's yells of pain, he pushed him down to the floor with his knee. "You gonna kiss and make up?" Kyle asked whimsically. After struggling, the man spat out an apology and Kyle let him up. The other soldiers quickly averted their eyes and returned to their previous tasks.

The squad grabbed a series of beds down the end. Len whistled in awe. "I gotta say, Sarge, you ain't good at making friends."

"Shut up, Corporal."

A voice crackled over the intership COM. "_All hands, stand to. We are transitioning to Slipspace in T-minus four minutes. Make ready for jump-secure all airlocks and bulkheads."_

The ODSTs scrambled to stow their gear, and Horatio's squad did the same.

The carrier moved away from the tether, engines glimmering. Eventually it found a remote region of space, and activated the FTL matrix. Black space began to flicker, and pull apart, revealing a rippling void. White beams started to form around the ship, and with a final thrust of the Slipspace capacitors, _Silver Lining_ jumped into the nether.

* * *

Horatio smirked as he saw the arrangement of the hand he'd been dealt. He delicately discarded two, and added three betting cubes. "Your move, Skippy."

Ollie bared his teeth. "Don't rush me." He studied his own hand, frowning. Around the bed, the other players-Horatio, Xavier and Len-watched impatiently. Benson was napping, Terry was in the gym. Gerun and Dasa were engaged in a mock battle of hand to hand, sparring in the aisle between the beds. Lazu lay on a prodigiously bent bed, bored. He was wearing only his chest-plate and lower torso plates, so his sinuous brown head was visible for all to see.

After a few minutes, Horatio groaned and banged his arm on the bed head. "Wake up Ollie! You doing something or what?"

"Alright, alright!" He laid down his cards. "Double flux. Pay up."

"Uh-uh, "Horatio said, smiling. He laid down his own hand. "Wide clasp. Can anyone beat that?" They all groaned, admitting defeat. Horatio gleefully scooped up the cash. "Thanks very much gents. Always a pleasure."

Kyle stomped in, fresh from the shower. Beads of water glinted on his scalp. "Who won?" he asked, reclining on a bed. They all pointed to Horatio. The man had defied the odds in the game so many times, many people wondered if he wasn't hiding some Irish ancestry.

Kyle sniffed ruefully. "Might have known. We'll be dropping into normal space in three hours-so if you've got anything left to do, do it now. I want everyone ready to drop as soon as we get there."

Horatio stood. "Might go get a bite to eat. Anyone else want to come?"

Lazu roused himself; as he got up, the bed creaked noticeably. "I will come. My belly aches-the prospect of food is enticing." He put his helmet back on. "I'll risk human food. Let us depart."

Horatio was about to respond with a retort, but bit it back, fuming. Couldn't he see how inconspicuous he would be? Did he have any sense at all? He rummaged through his pack and grabbed his amenities pass. "Come on, "he snapped irritably. The pair headed through the hatch and out into the corridor beyond.

Horatio cursed softly-he had no idea where the ship's mess hall was. He turned to a passing crewman. "Hey, could you tell me-"

The man caught sight of Lazu, gasped and hurried through an adjacent door. The Elite chuckled quietly. The marine sighed. _This is gonna suck._

After some minutes of fruitless wandering, they found a directory terminal, and from there, found the mess hall. Dispensers were lined up against one wall, offering soups, steaks and other foods, but no-one was using them. They had left Earth with a wealth of fresh supplies, and everyone was queuing up at the free choice food selection. Such fresh produce was a luxury and everyone was taking advantage of it. Tables and benches stretched as far as the eye could see, most of them occupied. Horatio and Lazu grabbed trays, and joined the line.

Things were OK, until it was their turn to be served. The cook, a nasty-looking man with a stained apron, jabbed a finger at Lazu. "I don't serve food to these split-chins, "he said accusingly, as if this resolution was somehow Horatio's fault. "And if you're with him, you don't get food neither. Get lost."

Before Horatio could act, Lazu stepped closer to the cook. Eyes turned in their direction, and more than a few hands twitched towards weapons. Lazu's voice was even. "Come now, sir. I only wish to partake of the food-only that, and I will go. I want no trouble." He leant closer. "Surely you do not want me to take this issue to Sergeant Kyle?"

The cook's face blanched; Kyle's reputation as a hard-ass was already spreading throughout the ship. "You can have food, "he said moodily. He clanged his ladle down. "But you do it." He stomped away. Horatio rolled his eyes.

Lazu squeezed around the metal bench, and, dipping his slender finger into a pot of curry, sampled it with difficulty, the spicy food dripping from his mandibles. "Piquant, "he remarked. He began searching for a bowl.

Horatio left him to it, moving along the selection line. He grabbed some bread rolls, a ham salad and coffee. Since a plasma bolt had caught him in the stomach four years ago, he had a delicate appetite. He moved away, but bumped into a rugged-looking man, dropping his tray.

The soldier whirled around, temper rising. "What's your problem, pal?" He thrust his scarred face into Horatio's. "Huh?"

Horatio had met plenty of big mouths over the years; most of them had been strangers to diplomacy. Nonetheless, he cleaved to his duty as a soldier. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."

The man turned to one of his companions, a weaselly-looking man. "Who is this prick?"

"He's the douche, you know, the one with the Elite, "he sneered. "Now, I wonder, what kind of traitor hangs out with these monsters?"

"Couldn't tell ya, Griff, "the rough-looking man said. "Reckon he should be taught a lesson." He pulled back his fist.

Horatio knew what was coming, and was ready. He swung himself to the right, and the fist missed. He body-slammed the man against a metal beam, but the man was only winded. He grabbed Horatio's lapels and head butted him. Silver sparkles flashed in his vision, and he felt a boot slam against his ribs. Pain exploded through him. He felt a powerful grip pulling him up.

His assailant's weedy companion-Griff-had him around the neck, and the man himself was rubbing his hands together. "Right, you bastard. Now I'll put you in your place."

Lazu chose that moment to act; he climbed onto the counter and leapt. The man shouted with surprise as the Elite's weight impacted him, sending him sliding along the floor and only stopping when he hit the wall, concussed.

Horatio whipped his elbow around, striking Griff on the jaw and stunning him. He clapped him on the temples, and his eyes glazed over. Breathing heavily, he wiped away blood from a cut on his forehead and got to his feet.

The cafeteria was silent; everyone was looking at them. Food littered the floor, and Lazu was pulling Horatio's attacker towards him. "What are you doing?" the marine asked.

Lazu indicated the man's supine form. "It is a scoundrel and a coward who makes conflict of everything, for no reason. Take issue with him."

Horatio turned away. "Forget it. He's no trouble now."

"If you will not, then I will-"

"_No!"_ Horatio rounded on his alien teammate. "I said no! I don't need your help! I don't need anything from any of you!" He grabbed another tray, loaded it up with food and stalked off to find a table.

Lazu sighed sadly, and left the cafeteria, hurt and confused.

* * *

Horatio was still stewing over the fight, and Lazu's constant, annoying presence. The Elite would not leave him alone, and he had no way of escaping it. What had he done to deserve this insufferable situation? He angrily dug his spoon into his bowl of yoghurt.

"Mind if I sit down?"

Horatio looked up, to see an equable-looking, smiling man, of medium build and bleached blonde hair, standing in front of him. Horatio nodded grudgingly. "Go ahead."

"Thanks, mate." He had an Australian accent. "Private Mitch Hannaford. There's five good ones for ya." He held out his hand. Horatio grinned despite himself, and took the proffered hand. "Good to meet you as well."

"So, "Mitch said conversationally, "saw you have a bit of biffo with Lastings over there. Not badly done."

Horatio's momentary good mood vanished. "I wasn't trying to start a fight."

Mitch's smile broadened. "Of course you weren't. Lastings is a bloody thug. I've no idea why they'd let a brain-dead like him into the Corps. But he's like all bullies-all mouth."

Horatio tentatively stroked his forehead. "Didn't feel like mouth when he was kicking the crap out of me."

The Australian waved a hand. "He'd just been demoted for fighting. You'd expect him to have a bit of starch in his spine. Say, you part of that experimental unit? The one with the Elites in it?"

"How'd you know?"

His breath hissed out darkly. "'Fraid so."

'Ripper." Mitch actually seemed excited. A shine came into his eyes. "Reckon you'll have no trouble. Those guys are flat-out deadly. I mean, sure, they were our enemies for a while, but I'm ready to give 'em a chance. What about you?"

Horatio couldn't believe what he was hearing. He shook his head fervently. "No. They've done too much to ever be forgiven. I came from Madrigal. Gone, now." He dipped a hunk of bread into his coffee. "Thanks to them."

Mitch seemed subdued by this. "Sorry to hear that." But then he leaned forward. "I know it's none of my business, but I saw you with that Elite. Didn't seem too friendly. None of my business, like I said, but what say you lay off him? Stop being such a stick-in-the-mud." He popped a grape into his mouth. "They're making an effort. But it takes two to tango, as the saying goes."

Horatio laughed harshly. "That'll be the day. Forget it, Mitch. We all can't be as forgiving as you."

Mitch gave a half-smile, and shrugged his shoulders. "No worries. You'll come around." A black plastic box on his belt began flashing and beeping. He made a mournful face. "El-Tee wants a powwow before we deploy. Sorry, gotta go." He made for the door.

"Wait a moment." Mitch stopped, and turned. "You in ground operations?"

The Australian grinned and punched the air. "Better believe it. Sigma Company, B-Platoon, Third Squad. Might even see you down there. You'll have to get one of those big Elite buggers to help us out. Cop ya later!" He left.

Horatio smiled again; the man's cheerfulness was contagious. He kept eating, until he felt a tap on the shoulder. It was Terry, still sweaty from his work-out. "There you are! Been looking for you. Debrief starts in ten minutes. We gotta go." The pair got up and exited the cafeteria.

* * *

The debrief room on the ship had a large holo-table at its centre. Chairs had been arranged about it, seating around sixty personnel. They were all regular marines-the ODSTs hot-dropped regularly, and other marines would join them in dropships. Gerun, Dasa and Lazu stood in the shadows, shark-eyes gleaming. The man in charge of the ship's marine contingent, Major Serrell, a thin, emaciated man with bright, indignant eyes, presided over the briefing. An image of the planet Gethrii appeared over the holo-table's reflective surface.

"As you can see, Gethrii is a planet full of volcanism. Large, underground tunnels full of liquefied magma form a honeycomb, leading to the spontaneous emergence of vent cores. This explains the planet's pockmarked appearance."

Serrell cleared his throat, and continued. "The reason why the control of this place is so imperative, is the importance the Brutes place on it. The natural geothermic conditions provide materiel and fuel for much of their native technology. The geography also suits their fighting style…and nature." He pressed a button.

The image disappeared, and combat footage materialized in its place. Pelicans flew high over craggy plains, only to be brought down by anti-aircraft batteries concealed in the rocks. Shortswords carpet bombed groups of Brute warriors, but were quickly dispatched by Seraphs and Banshees. ODSTs charged into a rocky defile, taking up positions and firing back at Jackal snipers.

There were Elites in the recording, too. Majors, clad in scarlet armour, led their blue cohorts into combat against ranks of snarling Brutes. A bloodied SpecOps Elite grabbed his Brute attacker by the neck and snapped it like a twig. Brute Chieftains roared their fury and charged into the fray, gravity hammers sparking. Golden zealots met their onslaught with drawn energy blades. Horatio, seated towards the back, curled his lip.

"Although we've beaten off three past incursions by the Brutes, they managed to land a substantial military force on the ground. Intel suggests they're mainly concentrated here, in the Divash mountain range. Occasionally they send expeditionary forces onto the surrounding plains as well." The hologram zoomed in on a series of sharp basalt peaks, ragged as blackened teeth. Amber-coloured flats stretched out for miles.

"We have reason to believe they have carved out a sizeable fortress in the mountains, using their plasma digging equipment. The Brutes are too many to be fought using guerilla tactics. But we've devised a plan that will-hopefully-work."

"For the past two days, we've been broadcasting falsified orders, requesting that the Elite vessels in-system be relocated to the Firanus system. If the Brutes hear this, they will certainly launch a naval attack. Knowing their savage natures, the Brutes groundside will do the same. We have also reduced the number of reconnaissance missions and patrols; this will lead them to believe that there are fewer marines standing by."

A grin tugged at Serrell's face. "This is where you come in. _Silver Lining_ will hide behind a nearby planetoid: go dark. As soon as the Brutes launch their respective attacks, the Elite ships will make the jump back. That will keep them busy."

"Then, we will slip around the battle, and hot-drop you-as well as the ship's contingent of Helljumpers-_behind_ the Brute forces. Meanwhile, the Elites-"he nodded to the alien trio-"will land a legion of their troops to reinforce the marines already on the ground. We'll be able to catch them off guard, and eliminate the majority of their military presence. If we can pull this off, they'll be too few to do us any harm. Any questions?"

A hand rose. "Won't they see us coming? SOEIVs can be pretty damn loud."

The Major considered. "Yes, they will. But, as soon as the ship can exit the planet's gravity well, we'll send bombers and Longsword escorts, to provide some air support. If we can get the space situation under control, we'll send more troops by Pelican. Be warned, however; if the naval battle is prolonged, you'll be on your own."

A squat, Hispanic marine cleared his throat. "What if the entire op goes FUBAR? Where's our fallback?"

Serrell highlighted a basin ten klicks from the presupposed killing field. "Here. There are extensive cave systems in this basin, entirely defendable. Also hidden there is a SATCOM transponder that can be used to signal for help."

He looked around the room. "One last thing. I've paired your squads-some of you will be with ODSTs. Designations will be marked on your pods. Sergeants will share command."

He clasped his hands together. "I believe that's all. You've all seen combat, so you know the drill. Just be careful. The Brutes are getting desperate; no telling what they'll do to win." He nodded. "Dismissed."

The group of marines stood, chattering and issuing orders. Kyle brought everyone in. "You heard the man-it's gonna be on for young and old. Expect the unexpected. We've got an hour-let's head back to the barracks and gather our gear. I want to go over a few things. Be at Engineering in half an hour."

They broke up and scattered across the room, heading for different exits. Kyle eyed Gerun, who had yet to leave. "What do you think?"

The Elite growled warily. "It will be bloody, support or no. We must guard each other carefully on this mission. I am glad we all trust each other."

Kyle thought about what Lazu had told him transpired in the cafeteria. "Me too."

* * *

Horatio marshaled his breathing as the bulbous drop-pod descended towards the exit tube. His hands, clad in reactive leather gloves, settled on the joysticks before him, but he resisted the urge to trigger the chute. Sweat trickled through his hair. _This is fucked, _he thought. _I signed up for the regulars. Not these one-ticket rides into hell's backyard._

On the screens, he could see the Elite ships, prows winking with purple lights, gliding to the edge of the system. They flashed blue-white and disappeared into Slipspace. The remaining UNSC vessels backed away from the planet and drifted.

Would this work, he wondered? Or would the Brutes see through their scheme and stay away?

He took another look at Gethrii. A truly ugly place-it looked like hell. Massive volcanoes could be seen from space, belching noxious gases and flames. A faint yellow sun was stark contrast to the blasted appearance of the planet. _Damn Brutes. Why do they have to take things so seriously? Why can't they fight in normal places?_

He felt a tremor ripple through the ship, and his pod rocked. His heart-rate spiked. As he calmed down, he saw, on the cameras, the planetoid. There was a rumbling as the carrier edged behind its bulk, and a low groan as all unnecessary systems deactivated. He could see nothing except the lights inside his own pod.

He had no idea how long he just sat strapped in, waiting for something to happen. But eventually, a voice crackled over the COM. "_All ships, we have contacts! Repeat, we have Brute contacts. I have visuals on five Brute vessels. They are charging their lateral lines and releasing fighters. Come about and charge MAC guns-target the lead ship."_

The captain's voice was artfully layered with false panic. Clever-let any Brute eavesdroppers think they had the UNSC ships intimidated. He made one last gear check, making sure it was secure, then waited.

On the screens, he saw the first Brute vessel take three MAC rounds on the bow. Its shields shimmered, but the last round crumpled the plating, and its running lights flickered. Its plasma turrets were failing, so it used pulse lasers instead. Blue beams stitched the _Stallion's _battle plate, but did minimal damage. Hundreds of missiles launched in a retaliatory strike, practically destroying the ship's bulbous head. It listed, and did its best to get out of the line of fire. It was too late, however. A series of explosions cascaded along its length and the ship detonated.

This sacrifice, however, had bought the other enemy vessels time and space. One disgorged a stream of Seraphs, which scattered this way and that, harassing the larger ships. A pair of frigates targeted the _Persepolis_, and fired a salvo of plasma torpedoes. Using its emergency thrusters, it evaded the worst of it, but took severe damage nonetheless. Armour boiled away, and the engines began flickering. The reactor was in danger of collapse. _Persepolis_ was out of the fight.

Horatio watched with concern. If the UNSC ships were overwhelmed, they'd have to scrub the op, and the system would be in the hands of the Brutes. But he didn't have to worry.

Space boiled green, and jagged holes in the fabric of space emerged. The jutting heads of the Elite craft made their way through. The cruiser, whose name was _Mercurial Resurgence, _charged headlong towards the enemy ships, engines at maximum velocity. It came to an abrupt stop as its fore projector lanced forward, a blinding beam of white energy. It gutted a Brute destroyer from stem to stern, completely disabling the craft. Decompressions ripped the ship apart. The Elite destroyers thundered towards the remaining three ships, releasing their own fighters. Volleys of laser fire lit the scene as the singleships swooped and dived. _Fool's Errand_ targeted a dozen Seraphs with its auto cannons, and blew them to hell.

The Brute ships were wily, however. As soon as the five allied vessels begun coming about, the last three ships, they backed off and fled towards the northern pole of Gethrii. The Elite and UNSC ships were in hot pursuit.

Another radio transmission. _"_Silver Lining_, this is Captain Jamison."_ The voice was calm, unruffled, a sheer contrast to the mayhem taking place in space. _Brutes have taken the bait. I estimate five battalions worth. They're assaulting the perimeter fence, but we're holding. Suggest you drop in."_

The ship's engines fired, and the carrier thrusted forward-surprisingly fast. Horatio felt his cheeks ripple as G-forces pushed him back into his chair. They were rounding the dark side of the planet.

The voice of the Pod Dispersal AI onboard the ship came over the COM. _"Approaching site of insertion. Releasing pods in five…four…three…two…one…."_

Horatio closed his eyes, as the pod's clamps released, and he dropped straight down.


	10. Chapter 10

*Chapter Nine

EARTH TIME: 19th of October, 2553

SOEIV Drop Pod

Gethrii

Mission Clock: 1540

He dropped fast.

Scarily fast.

Horatio tried to control his breathing as he plummeted earthward in the pod. The sound of the SOEIV breaking through the atmosphere rose to a shrieking crescendo. He jerked from side to side as he hit air pockets. He checked the thruster tanks, full of saturated acid. No leaks, not yet. Good. He'd need the explosively reactive gas to avoid any large objects.

Yellow cloud billowed around him, and condensation fogged the windows. _Amazed this place even has any moisture._

The temperature was climbing, as he began the worst part of the insertion. Fiery tendrils clawed at the skin of his pod, peeling away the hard layers. His fatigues were dark with sweat. The joysticks were scorching his finger pads. He closed his eyes, and slowly counted each second. After about a minute, he opened them.

The screens fizzled, but were still working. One displayed the target area-about a dozen other pods had made it to the ground so far. The other screen showed his pod's integrity data-still holding. Through the windows, he could see the rest of the battalion, innumerable dots on the horizon. Luckily, he had a nice open plain to land on-no reason to dodge objects. The blue-white jets of their engines were flaring against his vision. Feverishly, he scanned the readout on his own pod. Three thousand metres to go.

He made one last check of his weapons, ammo and other gear before settling in. His hand hovered over the chute release button. _Wait._

The ground was rushing up to meet him. He counted to three, then hit the button.

With a ripping noise the bright yellow parasail rushed out of the top of his pod. His rapid descent noticeably slowed. His safety harness cut into his chest, driving the wind out of his chest. He prepared for the jarring, bone-shaking impact.

With a _voomph, _the pod drove itself into the ground. His teeth rattled in his skull. Everything became a blur. When it settled, he shook his head and hit the release button.

The door of his pod flew off, landing ten metres away. The leather straps on his harness came away as well, snapping like rotten string. Gasping, he fell forward.

He had no idea how long he lay there, but eventually he sat up, blinking in the sunlight. "Never….again, "he muttered. His mouth tasted like dirt. Fortunately, he didn't seem to have suffered any internal injuries. Shaking his head again, he stood and surveyed the situation.

It wasn't pretty. Steam scalded out of cracks in the charcoal-and-orange ground. Grim peaks, twisted around each other, lined the horizon. The sun had taken on a burning significance, as if it was the omnipresent lord of the planet it lit. It was a scene of utter desolation. _And it's gonna get a whole lot worse before it gets better._

He reached into his pod, pulling away his rifle. He tucked his ammo bag into his belt, and nestled his helmet on his head. Targeting reticules and biometrics appeared on the screen. Everything was shaky, but green.

Before they dropped, they'd been given updated equipment. Horatio was glad for it, but worried the extra data would obscure his vision. Time would tell. He swept the terrain with his weapon. Nothing as of yet.

No pods were visible yet, but more pods were dropping down now. A pair of them landed not far from him, in a dry gulch. He keyed his radio. _"This is Private Horatio of-" _he squinted at his pod: NOVEMBER-_"November Squad. Does anybody copy, over?"_

Static fizzed and crackled, but he could hear a few voices as well. One of them might have been Terry's, but he couldn't tell. He scowled-if the COMMS went down, they'd be deep in the shit. He gingerly began walking towards the gulch.

There was a _boom_, and another pod landed next to him, the impact sending him tumbling. As soon as he'd shaken off the dust, he jogged over and, with an effort, prised the cover off. He peered inside.

A coughing Marine, face emblazoned with tattoos, pulled himself forward, wreathed by smoke. Horatio bent to assist, but the man waved him off. "Just gimme a sec."

Eventually the man stood up. He had a Canadian accent. "Gotta find my squad. Who're you?"

"Horatio, November Squad. You?"

"Dean, Oscar Squad." He had a look around the landscape. "We managed to keep formation until we popped our chutes. They should be nearby."

Horatio pointed to the gulch. "Saw some pods down there. Let's check it out." The pair headed slowly down the rocky slope, rifles drawn.

Suddenly, a voice sounded on their COMs. "_Any UNSC personnel, respond! This is Private Cooper of Zulu Squad. I'm pinned down in a gulch with a wounded squadmate. Requesting immediate assistance, over!"_

He could hear the chatter of rifle fire, and the whine of plasma. "Let's go!" he barked to Dean. He unlimbered his sniper rifle, jumping over a boulder.

The gulch was like an amphitheatre; it continually descended down in a natural series of tiers. Two pods were embedded in a crater. Their occupants were crouched behind them, firing back at unseen attackers. One had taken a plasma bolt to the shoulder, and was struggling to stay conscious. The uninjured marine tossed a grenade, and a hollow boom echoed up the gorge. But the enemy fire continued to pour in.

Horatio sighted through his scope, and picked out a conical helmet jutting over some rocks. "I see Grunts, "he reported tersely. "Must be a Brute with them as well. They're sending two around the other side. You head that way; I'll draw their fire and give Cooper a hand." Dean nodded in assent and hurried off.

He clicked his COM. _"Private Cooper, this is Private Horatio from November. I'm about twenty metres above your head. See if you can't draw them forward-then I can take them out."_

"_Got it. Make it quick." _The marine lobbed two more grenades up the slope, and fired aggressively. Twin blasts of shrapnel, and an angry howl was heard. It was working.

Stones clattered, and a blue-armored Brute made his way down the gorge. A lance of Grunts were right behind him. He had a strange plasma rifle in his hands-it was blood red. The plasma it was firing was the same colour. No matter-he'd faced plenty of Brutes before. He loosed the catch and rested the rifle on a rock. The alien's ugly face was right in his sights.

A powerful blow caught him on the side of the face, stunning him. He rolled, and faced his attacker-a Jackal sniper. Its bloodshot yellow eyes glared at him through its helmet. The birdlike alien had evidently wanted this spot for its own. It screeched a challenge and swung its carbine again.

He sidestepped, and smashed the butt of his own rifle into the alien's brittle ribcage, and was rewarded with a snap. The Jackal wailed in pain. Horatio dropped the rifle, drew his sidearm and shot the sneaky bastard through the head.

The fracas had not gone unnoticed-the Brute, sensing an ambush, sent the lance back up the slope and charged Cooper's position. He had no time to waste. He grabbed the rifle and fired.

One round buried itself in the Brute's arm, causing him to drop the weapon. Cooper, backing away, fired erratically. The Brute snarled, darted forward and struck with its massive fists. The marine was sent flying, landing with a crunch on the rocks. Grunting with satisfaction, it moved away, scooping up the plasma rifle.

A plasma grenade arced its way from the other side and stuck itself to the Brute's chest-roaring, it tore at the breast-plate, but it was too late. The alien vanished in a flash of light. The panicked squeals and barks of the Grunts could be heard.

Horatio moved down into the crater, making sure there were no more hostiles in the area. Moving over to Cooper, he saw that the man's spine was broken. Sighing, he moved over to the pods. The wounded man sat up, groaning. Horatio set a hand on his shoulder. "Relax. We'll patch you up." He rose his voice. "Dean!"

Dean jumped down from the other side, ambling over. "Grunts were no problem. Grabbed their plasma grenades-but I suspect you knew that already." He chuckled, then grew serious. "I'm a medic-let me have a look." He grabbed a medkit and inspected the shoulder.

Gunfire was heard, and the screams of Grunts. Horatio looked up the slope, as three ODSTs emerged and waved to them, rifles smoking. Horatio called, "Good to see you."

One Helljumper with white stripes on his helmet nodded. "Same here. Listen, we formed a rally point about two klicks away-about a hundred men and counting. Soon as you're ready we'll lead you there. You got wounded?"

Dean finished strapping a dressing onto the man's shoulder. "Not anymore."

"Good. Let's move out." Horatio, with his newfound allies, started clambering out of the gully. He wondered if any of his teammates would be at the rally point. Or were they dead, either killed on insertion or by the Brutes? He pushed the thought out of his mind.

_Screw that. This is just one more crummy planet that we're fighting over. They're not gonna die here. Not after all this._

Mission Clock: 1600

Captain Hodgkins watched the view screens with a furrowed brow. Every moment they used diverting power to the engines made it more and more likely that the Covenant would come across them and take revenge. He ordered deceleration, and the carrier drifted above the red planet. "Boll, "he barked.

The ship's AI, an unshaven man dressed in crimson, materialized above the holo-pad. He was supposed to be a medieval-style mercenary, but privately Hodgkins thought he looked like a drunk. "Yes, Captain?"

He mulled over several data readouts, then said, "Hold off on all system diagnostics for another minute, then dump all excess power into the reactor. I don't care if it red-lines; just get us out of here. Eject all fused material into the deuterium tanks to compensate. What is the path of least resistance?"

"The definition reads as the physical or metaphorical pathway-"

Hodgkins groaned. "I mean the vector that will have the least pull on the ship, give me a break!"

"Oh." The AI's form shimmered slightly as a humility subroutine manifested. "That would be heading two zero eight five by nine three three four."

"Then carry out my orders, and take us there."

"Aye-aye." His form flared different colours as he went about his tasks. "Reactor is pushing the safety levels. Magnetisation to occur within four minutes. We have enough power to escape the gravity well-however, we will have little operational thrust until the reactor stabilises."

"Fine. Go."

_Silver Lining _shuddered as the engines blazed, sending them forward. The atmosphere clung to them, but reluctantly let them go. Hodgkins exhaled noisily. "Good. Give me a status update on _Persepolis._"

"Her reactor isn't stabilised yet, but their life-support is still functioning. They have minimum thrust. They're doing their best to evac to the far end of the system, out of the way."

"At least that's taken care of. Open a channel to the Elite's cruiser."

"Yessir." The screen fizzled, and the imposing figure of the Elite Shipmaster Orbo Daruf' appeared. He was clad in gold armour, befitting his position. The captain tried to recall what he had read of him from the exchange profile he had received. A fiery warrior, he had already requested several postings on the front lines. His hatred of the Brutes was intense. Behind him, a number of silver-armored Elites could be seen operating the ship's controls.

The alien nodded to Hodgkins. "Well met, Captain. We have burned a Jiralhanae ship at the northern pole. Its charred remains now spiral into the atmosphere."

"How about the other two ships?"

Orbo consulted a screen outside Hodgkins' vision. "They are fleeing towards a moon, three hundred units distant. Perhaps they think it will afford them better protection." He sniffed derisively. "They are wrong. Nonetheless, if they attempt an orbital burn they could return to the fight very quickly. We will be vigilant. Now, do you require assistance?"

Hodgkins nodded. "We're readying our airborne reinforcements. It would be appreciated if you would provide some cover in case the Brutes launch a possible sneak attack."

"Of course. We must needs deploy the Xonnel warriors-the battle rages below. Have you received trajectory reports from your insertion?"

Hodgkins scanned his screens. "No. That's odd. The satellites are all accounted for-no reason why they shouldn't be broadcasting. I suppose there's groundside interference."

The Elite grumbled. "Hmm. Perhaps our equipment will function better. In any case, we are making our approach." He turned to one of his officers. "Majordomo Ref, report on atmospheric conditions."

"Solar winds in the exosphere at one hundred demi-units per hour, "the Elite growled. "Thermal bloom covering the target site. Suggests heavy-duty plasma equipment. The Brutes wouldn't have had the chance to offload mortars or baseline projectors-most likely repurposed mining gear."

"Re-orient the targeting vectors-aim for co-ordinates 690 by 221. Pressurise flak shielding to maximum safety levels. Have Commander Hirf Kalok' and his lances deploy three units ahead of the rest of the legion-they have experience in this manner of situation."

"Aye, Shipmaster."

The cruiser was now in sight, moving up to rest alongside _Silver Lining. _It completely dwarfed the smaller vessel. The alien drop-pods were far better than the SOEIVs-they could be fired from deep into space and still reach their target. They lined the vessel's underside like barnacles on a rock. Onscreen, Orbo nodded to Hodgkins. "We are in place. Deploy when ready." The transmission disappeared.

He began issuing snap orders. "Lieutenant Patel, re-route all power from unnecessary systems to the mag-lines. We can drift-so minimal power to the engines. Everyone else, focus on getting those ships out of here. Tell squadrons alpha and charlie to provide escort-the others to conduct bombing and strafing runs where they see fit. I want constant updates-I don't care if the satellites are buggy, tell them to work the COM systems. I want at least three landing sites in the next half-hour."

Down in the hangar, warning lights flashed as the doors and airlocks began opening. Pelicans with Warthogs clutched beneath their bellies hummed as they moved along the mag-lines, towards the trapdoors. Their strobe-lights flared and their stubby wings rotated as pilots made systems checks. Squads of marines cheered and whooped as they piled onto the dropships. In a mater of minutes, a number of dropships and fighters were racing out of the carrier, heading for the battle site.

Mission Clock: 1610

"How is it?" Len asked.

The nameless marine stood with hands on hips. "Didn't see anything. But there are more hills thataway." She pointed east. The forbidding shape of a volcano loomed. The land around it was hunched and bumpy. "Could be anyone there."

Len grunted. "Fine. We'll rest here." He waved the other four marines forward. Wearily, they ascended the hilltop. Overburdened with their heavy weapons gear, the hike was turning into a strenuous task.

Len wondered, as his boots scuffed the red dust, what he had done to deserve being put in this situation. An unexpected collision with another pod had buffeted his engines, and sent him at least three miles off course. If he hadn't deployed his chutes at that critical moment, he'd have careered into that ridge. As it was, he'd suffered enough. His head still felt like it had been hammered with a rock.

Then there was that ambush by the Brute patrol. The bastards would have fried and filleted him if these other marines, with similar bad luck, hadn't saved him. Len was grateful, but they weren't exactly being friendly. He wasn't part of their company and they knew it. Luckily, he was the only corporal there-the rest of them were privates-so they had to obey him and show him some courtesy. Still, their body language was saying _screw you_ as much as possible. The trove of heavy weapons made it almost worth being here. Almost, but not quite.

They'd been walking for some time now. He wiped sweat from his forehead, and turned to the nameless marine. "Any luck?"

"Not a bit, "she muttered, trying to tune the battered radio pack. "COM satellites can't punch through this gas cloud. Ground-based transceivers are playing up. We'll just have to wait."

"No, "Len said decisively. "Can't just sit here and wait to get shot. The rest of the battalion can't be far away-we weren't that far away. Besides, those hills will provide better cover. Five minutes, then we go." He walked off a distance.

"No."

Len whirled around. "Excuse me?"

The woman folded her arms and glared at him. "You ain't in our unit. So why should we have to take orders from you?"

Len stepped closer. "Because, _Private, _I'm the ranking marine here. And just so you know, I have no reservations about beating up a woman. Now, you gonna fall in line?"

The fire in her eyes dimmed. "Yeah, "she muttered sullenly. The nameless marine walked away, scuffing up dirt. Len sighed. Another dissident successfully defused.

He unslung his rifle and eyed it again. The general idea of their mission was to cause confusion amongst the enemy, before engaging in open combat. To that end, he'd discarded the standard-issue MA5C assault rifle and traded it for a ACF-33 rifle. A relatively new addition to the UNSC armory, it was all barrel, but had a 5x scope mounted on it. It fired heavy-caliber bullets, but these could be segmented into smaller cartridges for a quicker rate of fire, by use of a sophisticated interior system. Kyle preferred the battle rifle, but Len wanted more flexibility for this op. Testing the scope, he eyed the hills.

And saw a massive dust cloud. Without the scope, he may have mistaken it for a hill. Frowning, he turned back to his companions. "All of you, use your scopes and take a look at this."

Grumbling, the five marines roused themselves. But they were just as concerned as Len when they saw it. "Could it be some of ours?"

"Doubt it, "one remarked. "Too big for any light vehicles we might have brought-"

With a sonic roar, a pair of Shortswords rocketed over their heads. Len rounded on the nameless marine. "Quick! The radio!"

She immediately began twisting the dial this way and that, trying to find a signal. Eventually-

"_-Torch Five, scout that mountain range east of your heading-_

"_-taking fire from AA cannons-set up-plain-"_

"_-just took out some Wraiths on the escarpment-"_

Len grabbed the radio and barked into it, "This is Corporal Len of November Squad! Can anyone hear me, over?"

"_This is Torch-One. I read you, Corporal. What's up?"_

"We're located on a hill about 3 miles from the general insertion site. Sending you our co-ordinates now." He tapped a transponder unit on his helmet. "Can you provide extract, over?"

"_Negative, Corporal. Can't land this bomber down there-not enough room. Pelicans are en route. I'll tell them you called."_

"Torch-One, can you provide visual aid?"

"_Sure. What do you need?"_

"Make a fly-by over our location-we might have some enemy vehicles in the vicinity."

"_Roger that."_

A black dot appeared on the horizon, and quickly grew into the form of a Shortsword bomber. Even from this distance, Len could see its shiny underside, bristling with auto cannons and bombardment tubes. A fibre optic winked with red light as it scanned the surrounding area. It screamed over their heads, and disappeared as quickly as it appeared. Len tuned the radio. "Torch-One?"

"_Corporal, I make four, repeat four, Brute crafts heading in your direction. Choppers. Drone estimates that they'll be at your location within half an hour. Sorry, soldier, but we can't help you. Think you can hold out?"_

Len turned and looked at the pile of metal cases nearby. "Yes, I do."

He faced the marines. "Choppers on the way. Break out the heavy gear." As they turned away, he grabbed the radio again. "Torch-One? Maybe you can do one last thing for me."

When Len had finished with the pilot, he turned to the others. "Alright boys and girls. We don't have much time. Let's have a look around the neighbourhood…"

The four Brute vehicles tore up the hill. Bladed wheels spun and whirred. Exhaust pipes spat out tongues of orange and purple flames. Beak-shaped auto cannons targeted the lone figure standing on the hill.

The leader, clad in red armour, pulled the massive attack craft to a halt. He glanced at his companions. Why would one of the human dogs make a stand when so outnumbered? They were weak, yes, but not stupid. He buried his unease-it was unnatural. "There is only one. Urgaus, take him out."

"Aye." The Brute in question pulled the triggers on his control frame. White-hot jets of metal burst from his cannons. But the figure simply retreated a little, out of sight. The rounds drilled into the hillside. The leader gnashed his teeth. "Enough of this hide-and-seek. We will charge him. He has nowhere to go. Urgaus, take the lead."

Urgaus grinned bestially. "Thank you, pack-leader." He maneuvered his vehicle ahead of the others, and together they gunned their throttles. They quickly ascended the rest of the hill.

Standing on the dusty hilltop, Len watched the oncoming Choppers. He'd judged it right-giving in to their savage urges, they'd chosen to run him down rather than use their cannons. Good. They also hadn't noticed the tube he had over his shoulder. Tensing, he grasped the firing lever and sighted through the scope. The lead Chopper was bearing down on him. He just hoped the other marines would do their jobs.

Exhaling loudly, he pulled the lever.

A warhead, with a tail of fire, erupted from the tube, sending Len stumbling back. It powered towards Urgaus. He had been going too fast to dodge, and he howled as the rocket plowed into his front engine, blowing him and the vehicle apart. Metal sprayed everywhere, and the remnants of the wheel rolled away, eventually coming to a halt.

Len didn't stop to savor this victory. He fired the other rocket, kicking up a plume of dust and smoke. He dropped the empty launcher and pelted down the slope.

Spitting gravel, the leader crested the hilltop, his two companions behind him. He was furious at this attack by the human. Worse, he knew he had no-one to blame but himself. His eagerness to charge the human devil had brought Urgaus' death. He would not make the same mistake twice. He centred his auto cannons on the fleeing human.

A grenade bounced off his wheel and exploded. Bullets thudded into him, causing his shields to flicker. Growling, he pulled his Chopper around and faced this new threat.

More humans! Five of them, most carrying the same tube the other human had had. They were gathered some distance away. Gritting his teeth, he motioned to his two companions. "Take them!" I will deal with this runt." He pulled the handles back, and roared off towards the escaping human. The other two growled their assent and took off towards the other humans.

Len snapped his head around as he rounded the first corner in what the nameless marine had determined to be a twisting and arduous maze. The other marines were doing their bit. And the big bastard in charge was still after him. He reached down and grasped the handle of his new rifle for reassurance. Len hoped this plan would work.

A searing bolt of metal embedded itself in the rock wall to his right. Gulping, Len thundered off down the path.

Meanwhile, the nameless marine and her companions raced down a dry creek bed. Before the centuries-old volcanism it would have been a flowing river. Jagged rocks poked out of the dry ground. Even as they advanced, the temperature began to rise. One marine dashed a sheath of sweat from his forehead. "What the hell are we gonna do, steam them to death?"

"Shove it, "the nameless marine muttered. "Alright, we're nearly there. Cox, Davies, head up that way and take a launcher with you. You know what to do." Two soldiers grabbed a tube and hurried off.

She turned to the others. "Gregory, you remember where you placed the marker?"

The marine in question nodded. "'Bout half a klick onwards."

"Good." The screech of the Choppers engines was growing louder by the second. "Come on-we gotta go." The remaining three leathernecks scrambled over the rocks.

Cox and Davies were finding the going tough. Razor-sharp jags of igneous rock blocked their path, forcing them to go slower. Davies waved his hands fitfully in a vain effort to disperse the steam. "We there yet?"

Cox peered forward. "Yep."

Before them stretched a small valley, filled with black sand and white ash. Most noticeable of all, however, were the flaring columns of lava that erupted from the ground. The ground bulged and heaved as yet another half dozen spouts of incandescent liquid twisted into the air. Cox feverishly scanned the area, and found a patch of land that didn't have any dangerous magma spray around it. "Right there! Be careful!" The pair of marines cautiously navigated the treacherous landscape and huddled on a small island of flattened rock.

Just in time-the barbaric form of the Brute Chopper emerged from the creek bed. It's driver seemed bewildered by the fiery phenomena, but was determined to kill them nonetheless. Having seen the other Brute's death by rocket, the Brute had activated the vehicle's ballistic shielding. Ever since the humans advancements in heavy weapons (the Galilean Non-Linear Rifle being a prime example), the Brutes had taken steps. The shielding was strong enough to deflect small arms fire, grenades and (most of the time) rockets. Bad luck-they wouldn't be able to try it again.

Cox raised his rifle, and fired a shot to get the Brute's attention. He turned to Davies, who was holding the launcher. "You found a target yet?"

"You bet."

"Good." Cox exhaled loudly. "Now we wait."

They didn't have to wait long. The Brute uttered a guttural howl, and the Chopper jumped forward. Cannons targeted them.

"Now!" Cox shouted. Davies fired the rocket. But not at the Chopper.

The warhead hit the ground and caused a massive hole-reacting to this, a fountain of lava exploded from it, enveloping the Chopper. A snarl of outrage was heard, the shielding collapsed and lava ate into the vehicle's metal like acid. Cox laughed shakily. "Good work, Dav-"

An enormous shard of metal skewered Davies through the neck; he dropped to the ground without a sound. Staring in horror, Cox swung his gaze back to the Chopper.

It barely resembled a vehicle anymore; nonetheless, its cannons still functioned. The Brute hadn't fared well-a foul mess of bone and scorched flesh was all that remained off its right arm. An insane grin was pasted on its face. It readjusted the firing studs and fired at Cox.

He yelled in agony as a round burst on the rocks and sent tiny shards into his hip. A burning sting ran along his thigh. Blood stained his fatigues. Even as his mind was awash with pain, he was dimly aware of the Brute standing over him.

Drips of metal were sliding off the Brute's helmet and onto his leg, scalding him. The alien had lost its weapon, but now hefted an edge of rock. Its eyes were filled with bloodlust. As it raised the weapon, Cox closed his eyes.

A _sprack! _was heard, and Cox opened his eyes. The Brute was now missing its head. It slowly toppled to earth. Cox could hardly believe it.

Crunching noises-he turned, and swallowed. An Elite, tall and clad in shimmering black armor, strode over to him. Despite the onset of the alliance, he hadn't yet fought with the aliens. Nor did he want to. However, any objections he might have raised were stifled by the awe-inspiring sight of this Elite commando.

It held a carbine in one hand. Bending down, it's voice was firm. "Can you move your leg?"

Cox tried, and was rewarded with a blinding pain. "No, "he said between gritted teeth.

The alien extracted a roll of what appeared to be glowing green tape from a belt it carried. "Let me wrap your leg in this-it will immobilise it. Then you can move without fear of damaging it further."

Though Cox was unwilling to let the alien use his weird medical stuff on him, he acknowledged that he needed it. "Fine."

As he wrapped it, the Elite talked. "When I landed, there was nobody else in the vicinity. You are the first I have encountered. Do you have any companions?"

Cox nodded. "Four others. But they've got Brutes after them."

The Elite nodded gravely. "Then we must away. Can you move now?"

He gingerly put weight on the leg-and he felt nothing. He stood. "I'm ready."

"Good." The pair picked their way through the rocks. As they went, Cox said, "I'm Cox."

"Lazu."

The Chopper fired again. Ribbons of liquefied rock splattered the ground.

Backing even further down the path, the nameless marine and another soldier fired again, aggravating the Brute. The cluttered nature of the creek bed was working in their favour, and its frustrated shots kept hitting the rocks. But they were running out of room.

About fifty metres behind them was a small basin, filled to the brim with boiling lava. Occasionally a piece of rock would fall into it and become immediately incinerated. The heat radiating from it was infernal-the nameless marine felt like she was stepping into a furnace._ A furnace would be a nitrogen bath compared to this._

She keyed her radio, which was slick with sweat. _"Mandel, you in position?"_

"_Ready and waiting."_

"_Good." _At least one thing was going right.

The Chopper edged forward a few more metres, cannons still firing and missing. The driver's bestial face was screwed up in a crude snarl. But when he caught sight of the lava pool, it lit up in a grin. Slowly, dramatically, it forced the vehicle forward, inch by inch.

He knew that it was only a matter of time before they had nowhere to go. The Brute believed he already had this fight cut and dried.

He'd taken the bait.

They kept backing away, keeping expressions of fear on their faces. They were now only a few metres away from the pool. She could feel the heat beginning to crisp the soles of her feet.

The nameless marine yelled into her radio, _"Now! Do it now!"_

From his concealed place in the rocks above their heads, Mandel fired the last rocket.

It sailed through the air, and detonated somewhere in the crags opposite. The Brute grinned, still thinking he had the upper hand. He didn't.

A muffled shriek was heard as a landslide of rocks tumbled over the Brute and his craft. The shielding failed and they both disappeared under an avalanche of basalt. When the terrible noise had subsided, there was nothing but a pile of black rocks, yellow dust slowly rising above it.

Breathing slowly, they made their way over. Mandel appeared, smoking launcher in his hand. He poked the rock pile with his foot. "Is it…dead?" he asked.

"Can't be much deader than that, "the nameless marine said harshly. "Get Cox and Davies on the horn. We gotta get back and see if the Corporal's made it."

"Doubt it, "Mandel remarked as they walked, the other marine cueing his radio. "Didn't seem that tough to me-for all his bossiness."

Privately, the nameless marine disagreed. Len was an idiot, but if what she'd heard was true, he was one hell of a soldier. And they were going to need it, if the day's events were anything to go by. _Still, I hope he finds his own squad and goes back to where he belongs._

"I've got Cox, "the marine reported after a few minutes. Listening to the transmission, he made a face. "Davies bought it."

"Damnit."

"Oh, and he said he, uh, picked up some help."

"What kind of help?" Mandel interjected.

From the junction ahead, Cox and a massive Elite emerged. Mandel gulped. "Oh, "he stammered, "that kind of help."

The alien surveyed them all. What he saw obviously didn't impress him. "I only count three of you. Where is the other one?"

The nameless marine marshaled her courage. She wasn't about to be intimidated by this creep. "He went off by himself, to deal with another Chopper. Some dude named Len-"

The Elite's eyes widened. "Corporal Len? He is in my squad. We must find him." He set off, carbine cocked.

As they trudged behind him, Mandel sighed. "Great. We just happen to end up with that prototype squad. Those guys are like a suicide squad, the places they go. We're screwed."

_Probably, _the nameless marine thought glumly.

Len ducked as the streaks of plasma flew over his head. They impacted on a rock and sizzled, but he had no time to go around it. He pulled himself over it, ignoring the pain.

The Brute had left its vehicle behind-the path had become too rocky. It was now stranded between two stalagmites, wobbling precariously. But the Brute was no less vicious, hunting him ruthlessly.

A sharp turn-perfect. He rounded it, nestled between some rocks, and aimed his rifle.

He knew he wouldn't be able to kill it-that's what his plan was for. But there was no harm in slowing it down. He clicked off the safety, and waited.

As soon as the Brute's ugly face appeared, Len fired. The armourer hadn't lied-the bullets were heavy pigs. He felt the rifle kick against his shoulder, but squeezed off two more shots. The bullets struck the Brute on the face, causing it to howl and drop back, hands clutching its face. Len bolted.

As he ran down the defile, leaping over obstacles, he was aware of the Brute pursuing him. It had already recovered-that wasn't good. If this didn't work, Len had no idea what he'd do. He only hoped the others had survived.

He kept running-then found himself facing a sheer black wall. There was no way he'd be able to scale it-and even if could, the Brute would just pick him off. Breathing hard, he clicked on his COM. "_Torch-One? Better hurry up. I'm running out of time."_

"_Don't mess yourself, Corporal, we're on our way. It's not easy changing co-ordinates at this altitude."_

"_Yeah, yeah. Just do it." _He signed off, and faced forward.

It was eerily quiet. He could see nothing but the tumble of rocks in front of him. The Brute could be hidden anywhere. He fired a few rounds into the air, and the harsh snarl of the bullets echoed through the air. Then silence.

He couldn't stand this waiting. Brutes usually weren't this patient. Time to use some banter. "I hope you asked for shore leave, "he called out. "Because you're gonna be here for quite a while. What, you scared?"

The Brute probably didn't understand the words but inflection in Len's voice probably carried the message across. An animalistic howl rang through the air and the Brute charged from a crevice in the rocks, plasma weapon up and firing. Len dodged the poorly-placed shots and fired back. The bullets tore huge gaps in the alien's shielding and armour but it didn't stop. It kept coming.

With a snarl it crashed into Len, bringing them both down. Len grunted and tried to fire, but the Brute grabbed his hands and squeezed, cutting off the blood flow. The pain was immense-the alien's hands were like mechanical vices. Eventually he had to let go of the rifle, and it clattered to the ground.

With a satisfied growl the Brute threw Len aside, sending him along the ground and causing him to be splayed against a rock. He shook his head, stunned, and reached for his sidearm.

The Brute threw himself at him, roaring. Len pinned his knee between himself and the alien and grabbed its lapels, in an effort to keep its slavering, fang-filled mouth away from him. But it was too strong. His kneecap felt like it was about to shatter. He then spotted the Brute's broken helmet, dangling. _Ah, what the hell._

He snapped his head forward, and the Brute's helmet rammed into its own forehead. It howled, and desperately tried to pull the shards of metal from its flesh. Taking advantage of this, Len rolled away and backed off, drawing his pistol. He didn't waste time; as soon as it cleared the holster he fired.

The Brute staggered as Len emptied the clip into the alien. Red holes blossomed all over its body. But when he ran dry, it was still standing. Len was unarmed, apart from a knife. Though aware of the fact it would be useless, he stood ready.

The Brute shook itself like a dog, and faced the marine. Seeing the knife, it grinned savagely. "You cannot best me human. I will take your head as a trophy."

Before he could reply, Len's helmet crackled. "_I'm on the approach, Corporal! You say when."_

Len smiled slowly, and activated the speaker function on his COM. "Torch-One, now would be a great time. Adjust for two hundred metres."

"_I hear ya. Dropping in ten." _A sonic roar filled the air, and the Shortsword appeared overhead. It was a tiny dot in the sky.

The Brute cocked his head. "What games do you play, human? If you assail this place with explosives, you shall perish too. Enough of this." It stepped forward, hands flexing.

Len snorted. "Who said anything about exploding?" He then pointed upwards. "Say hello."

The Brute looked up. Its eyes widened with shock, and it turned to run. But it was too slow.

Torch-One dropped a bomb-but not an active one. It descended through the sky, and scored a direct hit on the Brute. The weight of the explosive crushed its torso and drove its body through the stony ground. By the time the dust cleared, all that remained was a twisted mess of shattered limbs. Len whistled. _Bloody hell, who needs explosives?_

Torch-One's voice came over the COM. "_Nailed him! Right, I gotta go, Corporal. But I've got dropships on my sensors. Just sit tight and drop a beacon. Good hunting. Torch-One out."_

"_Thanks for the assist. Corporal Len out." _Rising wearily, he made his way back, his bones killing him.

Halfway back, he heard a clattering of rocks and raised his knife. "Come out, "he said sternly. Lazu emerged, a relieved expression on his face. "It gladdens me to see you, Len."

Len grinned and shook his hand. "Same here. You found the others?"

"Indeed I did." He glanced over his shoulders. "Dropships are landing not far away. We must return." He lumbered off.

As they walked, Len asked, "You heard from Kyle? Gerun? Anyone?"

Lazu shook his head. "You are the first I have met."

Len sighed, and kicked a pebble moodily. "Terrific. I just hope they made it."

"As do I."

Mission Clock: 1630

"Alright! Bring her down!"

The marines scrambled to mount the 'Hog as it dropped from the Pelican's clutches, the entire assembly clunking as it pounded the red dirt. Tyres spinning, the vehicle and its crew sped off, reconnoitering the area. Fellow soldiers cheered them on their way. In the makeshift rally point, they were still preparing for the assault. Roughly one thousand marines now mobbed the hill. Landing pads had been established, and dropships were arriving, disgorging new loads of troops.

Kyle watched all this with scarcely-concealed impatience. He wanted to move out and engage the enemy. Not due to any sort of bloodlust-but because the sooner they crushed the Brutes, the sooner they'd be off this world. Plus, they could begin the search for their missing teammates.

He knew it was irrational to automatically think that they'd been killed or captured. Horatio, Len, Lazu, Dasa and Gerun were perfectly capable of looking after themselves. They'd made it through worse scrapes before. Still, there was no way of knowing. In his time as a marine, he'd seen the concept of probability go out the window. The fact remained that some of his squad members were still here and accounted for. For now, he'd lock away the dark feelings in a corner of his mind.

Spitting on the ground, he turned to his soldiers. Ollie had torn a tendon during the drop, which the medics had fixed, but would limit his marksmanship. _Yet another problem in this hilarious sideshow. _The loss of the Elites hurt too-their shields and superior training and strength were invaluable. More would be arriving soon, but Kyle didn't care. The squad had lost their ace in the hole. And Len, annoying as he had been, had always been a capable right-hand man. _Never gonna tell him that, though. Man's head is swelled enough as it is._

"You had any luck?" he demanded.

Ollie shook his head ruefully. "No chance. Satellites can't punch through the atmosphere. The sensors down here are no good either. I've talked with other techs-COM range is about two miles. We'll just have to make do."

The sergeant grunted. "Fine. How's our partner squad?"

"Over there." He jabbed a finger about twenty metres distant. "They've lost a few as well."

Sadly, that was the state of most of the battalion. Of the two hundred or so squads gathered here, only seventy weren't undermanned.

Before Kyle could ask another question, a voice could be heard on the battalion COM. "_All squads, report to positions. Repeat, all squads to positions. Offensive commences in five. All Warthog crews, report to Lieutenant Burton."_

"Alright, time to move, "Kyle announced. "Let's head over."

The meagre group shouldered their gear and threaded their way through a mass of green. Eventually they reached their partner squad, Kilo.

The sergeant there was a tired-looking man, roughly the same age as Kyle. Grey touched the shorn hair of his temples. His men didn't look much better, lying around on the ground. _Reminds me of mine-just more miserable. _

The man looked up, offered a weak smile. "Kyle? Heard a lot about you. Good to have you around for this little fete. Sergeant Evans." He offered his hand, and Kyle took it. Despite his appearance, Evans had a strong grip. Kyle revised his opinion of his fellow sergeant-there was a lot more to him than met the eye. "Likewise. I see you lost a few."

Evans sighed, and hung his head. "Yeah. Nothing to be done about that, though. I just hope-"

He broke off in a fit of coughing. Everyone watched with concern. Kyle touched his shoulder. "You alright?"

Evans waved him away. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just need some water." He unscrewed his flask and gulped some down. His hands shook.

Kyle frowned inwardly. With the end of the war, a great number of old soldiers had retired. Some veterans-mostly those to whom the UNSC was home-had stayed behind, himself included. His home, Eridanus II, had long since been destroyed. The only thing he knew was soldiering. Even so, this man should have been forcibly retired years ago. He only hoped the man's infirmity wouldn't jeopardise the mission.

Evans stood up, and dusted himself off. "Anyway. We got assigned to one of the outlying spots. Our job is to flank the enemy-take them out while they charge one of the central groups. You got your sniper?"

"No."

Evans scowled. "Damn. I've lost mine as well. Still, I managed to get some more sniper rifles-"

"Sarge!"

Kyle turned, to see a familiar figure rushing over. Benson, who had been unqualified for hot-dropping, had taken a dropship. He pulled off his helmet, to reveal a beetroot-red face filmed with sweat. He was obviously unused to the planet's fierce climate. Throwing a salute, he said, "Reporting for duty, sir."

Kyle nodded gruffly. "At ease. Get in the ranks. We're moving out." Benson nodded, and hurried to join the others.

Ollie looked up and nodded to him. "Kid. You like it hot?"

He resentfully brushed the sweat from his hair. "Hell no." The tech expert chuckled. "Well, get used to it."

The marines in Kilo squad sniggered. Benson rounded on them, determined not to be pushed around. "You guys got a problem?"

One of them, a stringy man with thick black hair, eyed him dismissively. "And what're you gonna do about it, rookie? Here's a tip-sling your ass back up in orbit. Leave this to the real men."

Benson gripped his rifle tightly. "I was part of the op that was on the _Lima. _If it wasn't for me, the entire squad would've died. How many of you assholes can say the same?"

"Listen, kid." There was no humour in the man's voice now. His eyes were full of contempt. "You might think you're some sort of hero, running around after that squad full of idiots. But you aren't. Now, stay out of the way or I'll keep you out." He turned away, readying his gear. His cohorts grinned in agreement. Terry, Ollie and Xavier scowled, but said nothing.

Benson stepped towards of them, about to brawl-but then a hand clamped him on the shoulder. It was Kyle. "Don't even think about it, rook. We're working with these guys, in case you didn't realise. Now, simmer down. Or I'll put you on point."

Benson tried to pull away, but Kyle pulled him back. The recruit winced, expecting a blistering rant. Instead, Kyle bent down to his ear. You want to beat them?" he whispered. "Prove them wrong."

Mission Clock: 1645

"I see them. Ten, fifteen. One of the craven wields a plasma turret."

Gerun grunted, and instinctively reached for where his needler pistol would rest. No such luck-it had been shaken to pieces during the drop. He still carried several explosive shards from the weapon, however-and his energy blade. For all the good they would do him at range.

They'd been walking for some time now.

He was no stranger to tough circumstances. He'd fought innumerable battles where they had been outmanned or outgunned, against humans and Covenant alike. But with no effective weaponry and only one warrior at his side, things were looking grim. The Elite raised his hand to his headset and tried to raise someone for the fifth time. Nothing.

Dasa slipped down off the rock he was perched upon and squinted at the approaching column of Brutes. "Well, leader?" he asked. "Do we fight or flee?" He patted his spike rifle, now a reddish colour from the dust. There was no doubt as to what he preferred.

Gerun shook his head. "They are too many. Finding our allies is the main priority. Besides, nothing we have would dispatch them quickly enough."

"They have not seen us yet, "Dasa argued. "What of the element of surprise?"

Gerun ground his mandibles. He'd faced this problem before. Perhaps it was his training in high-yield armaments, but Dasa disliked backing away from a fight. A "hothead", as the humans would say. Something all too likely to cause a calamity. He faced his surly companion. "What do you have in mind?"

He pointed to a jumble of rocks and scree at the base of the hill. "We still have time to make it down there and spring a trap. If we strike quickly enough, the Jiralhanae will never know what assailed them."

Gerun considered it. If they succeeded in taking down the Brute pack, they would have a much better chance of surviving. But attacking their enemies was dangerous in itself. It was a conundrum. He thought back to his lessons on war psychology on Sanghelios.

_Dwell not in the realm of second-guessing, _his old teacher had urged them. _To be standing in danger and not knowing what to do is as dangerous as being surrounded by ten thousand foes._ _When you are unsure of what course of action to undertake-if both ways seem equally feasible-then there is but one solution. Choose one. Then do it!_

He relented. "Very well. Let us be about it."

Dasa pulled out a timed plasma grenade. "In a moment. There is something I must do first."

The Brute leader, Kolbus, was nervous. He had only recently been given his "-us" suffix of manhood, and most of his pack were seasoned veterans. As such, they were derisive of him and his supposed status-which he had only come by due to his father's standing in the Alpha Tribes. He was determined to set an example.

Their scouts had seen a series of objects descending from the sky, just as they were about to join the attack on the human base. Having experience with the humans insertion pods, he and his subpack were sent. So far they'd seen nothing, but that was nothing new.

Kicking aside a rock, Kolbus noticed his ranging warriors dawdling back towards the centre of the pack. He raised his voice. "Pack brothers, stay on the flanks. They could be concealed in the rocks. Be vigilant."

One particularly outspoken individual, Wairdus, flipped his hairy hand dismissively. "We've been searching for hours-what chance do we have of finding them?"

"Do as I say, "Kolbus barked-or rather, tried to. The Brutes turned away, snickering to themselves. They didn't return to their positions.

Aware that he had lost that battle, Kolbus turned to his second in command, Gurvus. The strongest member of their subpack, he carried a portable plasma cannon. "Make them submit! I am leader here."

Gurvus sniffed. "I am not your lapdog, pup. Fight your own battles." He strode ahead.

Not too far, however. Kolbus, having had enough, ripped his prized spike rifle off his belt and fired. Gurvus cried out as the spikes seared his armour, broke through and penetrated his spine. He fell to the ground, limbs twitching. The plasma cannon thudded to the dirt. All the other Jiralhanae turned and looked at him apprehensively.

Adrenaline pheromones secreting through his glands, Kolbus glared at his warriors. "That fool defied orders. You will all suffer the same fate if you do not do as you are told! Now, move!" He rammed the weapon back into his belt.

Suddenly, a blue flash was seen on the hill ahead. Kolbus' eyes narrowed. "Did you see that? Three of you, seek ahead and see what you can find." No longer insolent, a few Brutes trudged towards the site of the flash. Kolbus stood back, arms folded smugly. _Now_ things were going well. Respect was all very well, but he would take fear any day.

With a sharp whistling noise, two glowing pink shards embedded themselves in his calves and detonated, sending Kolbus onto his back, blood streaming from his legs. He yelled in agony, but a gnarled fist caught him on the chin, knocking him out cold.

The Brutes were slow in reacting, and they paid the price. More shards flew out from the rocks, catching one in the eye and exploding, sending gore everywhere. Two more Brutes doubled over, the needles lodged deep in their guts. Spikes hissed, and finished them off. One roared at his companions to throw grenades, and they did so. Club-like spike grenades soared end over end, and send showers of razor-sharp shrapnel everywhere. The smell of burnt hair filled the air. Several of the subpack entered the rock-strewn area, to see if their assailants had died. Boulders were stacked head-high, and several paths ran off in different directions. They stared about, bemused.

That was when Gerun stepped from the shadows and triggered his sword. The first one fell across the rock, his stomach spilling entrails onto the dusty ground. The others shouted and fired, but Dasa darted out and dealt them crushing blows with the butt of his fuel rod cannon. They groaned, and died. Gerun stared at the dripping corpses distastefully, and brandished his sword. "Vile beasts. How many are left?"

Dasa shrugged. "Enough. Are you ready?"

The golden Elite flared his mandibles, the equivalent of a wide grin. The thrill of the battle had infected him as well. "Indeed. Let us deal with this rabble."

One Brute bent down, and nudged the supine Kolbus. He snorted. "The pup is weak-let him slobber in the dirt. The others have not returned. What should we-"

Suddenly two Elites emerged from the rock pile, grim faced and walking straight at them. The aforementioned Brute pointed a plasma rifle at them. "Sangheili bastards!"

Without breaking stride, Gerun seized the last shard and hurled it into the Brute's skull, killing him instantly. Drawing his sword, he beckoned the seven remaining Brutes. "Come, then."

With a howl they ran straight at them. Gerun dodged a flurry of spikes, sidestepped and cut one Brute in half. Two more tackled him to the ground. Dasa grabbed his own rifle and swung the blades, but was soon corralled by several Brutes.

Gerun dug his hands into the Brute's shoulder and with an effort rolled left, just managing to take the surprised enemy with him. Bracing himself, he swung his head several times, shattering the Brute's cheekbones. He felt a hot gush of blood spray over him. The Brute groaned, and gurgled. He was out of the fight.

Dimly, he was aware of another Brute slashing at his back with a barbed blade. Roaring his fury, he sprung up and grabbed the blades with his bare hands. They cut through his shielding and gashed his hands, but he ignored the pain. Snarling, he grabbed his attacker's wrists, drove him up against a rock and set the blades against the Brute's neck. It screeched and crunched a knee, covered with a sharp spur, into Gerun's stomach. He gasped as the spike stabbed into skin, but didn't relent. After a few seconds, the Brute stared at him disbelievingly, and then, gurgling toppled to the ground, purple blood oozing from his neck. He stepped back, only to have another Brute clout him on the back of his head. Seeing stars, he slumped down.

Dasa was in trouble. He'd taken several cuts already, blood staining his black armour. He jumped back to give himself more room, just as a bayonet sang through the air, missing his neck. To the Brute's surprise, he bulled forward, gripped its arms and forced them over its head, and kept going. Until the Brute shrieked with pain and a jarring _crack _was heard. It fell down, its arms utterly broken. More Brutes came forward, pushing him backward. His fuel rod gun shook, and he had a sudden idea. Turning, he ran away as fast as he could. The Brutes could hardly believe it-an Elite actually fleeing. They jumped over their wounded comrade, and pursued him.

Dasa awkwardly pulled his cannon off his back, slid back a circuitry panel and started priming buttons. He would have only one shot at this. When he was ready, and an emerald light began flashing, he turned and faced his attackers. They opted to use their bayonets, thumping towards him. With a might heft, he tossed the cannon, just as a loud _beep _was heard.

The cannon blew apart with a thunderous bang, a green, spark-filled cloud expanding, enveloping the two Brutes. When it cleared, all that was left were two pairs of bootprints left in the dirt.

Dasa sighed, exhausted, but then a _whirring_ was heard, and streaks of plasma began thudding into him. They'd began to use the turret. He grunted, trying to brace against the blasts, but eventually his shield failed, and he collapsed, the white-hot plasma charring away his armour. Just as the barrage stopped, he felt a heavy hand bash him on the side of the head, and he blacked out.

Gerun awoke to blinding pain, which only got worse as a muscled fist batted him across the face. Cursing groggily, he opened his eyes.

Three Brutes remained-they regarded him with murderous intent. All three had grievous wounds, but were still standing. He tried to move his limbs, but found them tied down with strips of cable taken from the Brutes armour. No surprises there. A cough made him look left, to see Dasa in a similar condition. He looked up, and saw one of his captors stand over him.

The Brute toyed with a spiker at his belt, breathing heavily. The last few minutes seemed to have pushed it over the edge. "You will both pay, "it whispered maniacally. "You will pay for the trouble you have caused us, heretic dogs."

Another Brute stumped over, this one with a bloodied face and chest. Spikes protruded from its armour. "I want to have some sport with them, before we kill them."

Gerun heard Dasa snort with pained laughter. "I won't give you the satisfaction, Jiralhanae. Step my way and you will regret your temerity."

The second Brute kicked him viciously. "Silence! Now, save your breath. You'll need it to scream." It raised a jagged spiker blade.

Suddenly a weight entered the air, a rumbling that grew in sound. Then, as if a bubble had been burst, a roar was heard and several turquoise pods thudded to earth. The Brutes stared at them disbelievingly. In the silence, Gerun chuckled. "My brothers have arrived. Now we can fight on even terms."

With a hiss the hatches of the pods flew off, revealing a pure white interior and their occupants-SpecOps Elites. One pulled a beam rifle off the wall of his pod, whipped it up and fired at the first Brute, sending a fountain of brains into the air. Plasma bursts from the other Elites followed, and the other Brutes dropped like rocks.

One Elite, with silver armour, walked over to them and sawed their bonds loose. Gerun gingerly stood up. "Well met, brother. I am Gerun Nefur', Third Lance, Kalkoro Legion."

The leader growled a greeting. "Well met. I am Hirf Kalok', Twelfth Lance, Xonnel Legion." Behind him, his warriors fanned out, scouting the immediate area.

It was only now that Gerun noticed the shining hand sigil on their chest-plates. Xonnel, after all, meant "fist of light" in the Sangheili tongue. Gerun had fought alongside these warriors before; they were renowned for plunging straight into the fray-something the Prophets had much appreciated. _But now, _Gerun thought, holding back a sudden surge of pride, _they are far more tempered. Wiser. So we learn._

Hirf pointed south. "The Jiralhanae have a large encampment set up some units away. Intelligence suggests it is where they will co-ordinate most of their attacks. Our ships have detected the presence of high-output plasma equipment. Thus, we were sent ahead of the main group. Our objective is to wreak as much havoc as possible. Will you join us?"

Gerun watched as Dasa was freed, and shrugged. "I would rejoin my unit as quickly as possible. But there is safety in numbers. We are with you. But tell me, do you know where the humans have landed?"

Hirf grimaced. "Not as of yet. But we may pick up their radio traffic, or locate some of their transports. Also, I would be expecting our own reinforcements soon. It is only a matter of time."

A cry was heard, and an Elite was seen grasping a half-conscious Jiralhanae by the neck. "This worm is still alive. Your orders, Commander?"

Hirf stepped up to the struggling Brute. "Who are you, dog?"

The alien glared at him sullenly. "Kolbus. My father is an Alpha. He will not rest until you all lie dead!"

"Really?" Hirf asked sardonically. He turned to the Elite. "He can be useful. Bind his hands and let us be off."

Gerun watched with satisfaction. In the days of the Covenant, an Elite would have simply killed the Brute. Now, they were using less honour and more commonsense.

_We learn, _he thought proudly.

Mission Clock: 1700

Hodgkins watched with satisfaction as the last of the transports left the hangar. The assault was well under way now. Best of all, the satellites had started working again-some of them, anyway. He took a moment to survey the system.

The Brute destroyers had been dispatched, after a heated game of hide-and-seek with the Elite ships. They were now in complete control of Gethrii. He only hoped the ground assault would work as well. From the few and sketchy battle reports he had received so far, the base was struggling to keep the Brutes at bay. And the battalion was scattered. The transports would lend some bite, but if the Brutes came at them in force they'd have no hope. He sighed, and rubbed his face.

A loud beeping was heard from Ops. He frowned, and walked over. "What's happening, Lieutenant?"

The young naval officer tapped the screen. "There's some strange radiation thirty-five million kilometres distant. The database can't place it-I'm going to send a reading of this to the Elites. Maybe they'll be able to place it-"

An _enormous _flash of radiant light flared at the edge of the system. However, unlike the typical green or blue light that accompanied a Slipspace rupture, this one was blinding white. Hodgkins had to shield his eyes, as the incandescent flash filled the view screen.

A Brute ship nosed through the crack-but it was different. The normal snub head was a series of curved geometry, all curling towards a central point. The body of the ship was mostly purple, but here and there white-grey alloy was plated on. Finally, the flare of the ship's engines was the same colour as the rupture, which had rapidly closed. He stared at it. He'd never seen something like this before. What upgrades had this ship received?

He marshaled his courage and snapped out orders. "Push reactor strength to four-fifths power and remove boost inhibitors-we need to stay maneuverable. Prep a nuke and arm Archer pods A through F. Deplete magnetic coils for the moment-we'll need the power." As his ensigns hurried to carry out his orders, he watched the ship.

The Elite ships had returned from their sojourn near the moon and approached the Brute vessel without pause. Glowing orbs of plasma grew at their fores, and three streaks of superheated flame flew towards the enemy ship. He tensed, half knowing what was about to happen.

The Brute ship seemed to fire back-but it was not a blast. It was a golden stream, that encapsulated the attacking plasma, until it burned out, acrid haze drifting through the golden bubble, tainting it black. Soon, it disappeared. The Brute vessel stilled, and stopped.

"Pods online, sir."

Hodgkins snapped out of his reverie. "Right. Move at flank speed. We need to support the Elites."

Suddenly the Brute cruiser's engines fired, and another Slipspace rupture opened. But it seemed different. More of a tube, than a tear in the fabric of space. Hodgkins watched in fascination and fear. The ship jumped and disappeared.

And re-appeared in the midst of the Elites battle group.

Golden fingers of energy ripped through space, and struck the Elite ships. Their shields lasted for a few seconds, then vaporized. The two destroyers blurred white and faded.

_Mercurial Resurgence, _however, was still active. It backed off, and fired a volley of pulse lasers. They did little damage, but the Brute ship was unable to stave off the lasers.

"Get us right up close!" he barked. "Quickly, before it targets us."

"Sir, "ventured one of his officers, "_Stallion _and _Persepolis _are asking for orders-"

"Tell them to hang back. They might need to retreat."

"Aye aye."

Suddenly the face of Orbo Daruf' materialized on the screen. His bridge was full of blaring lights and purple smoke. "Captain!" he snapped. "Do not attack. Fall back. We will draw this amalgam ship away."

"But-"

"No!" The Elite was adamant. "You must remain, to help our warriors groundside. We will fight these animals. Please, you must leave."

Hodgkins remembered how much Orbo desired to fight the Brutes, and sighed regretfully. "As you'll have it, Shipmaster. Good luck, and give them hell."

The Elite grinned. "We shall." The picture winked off.

Onscreen, he saw the Elite cruiser fire more lasers, and flee towards the moon again, the Brute vessel in hot pursuit. More streaks of gold fire jetted forth, and impacted on its stern. It listed, but kept going.

Hodgkins watched this without blinking. Then said, "Back us off. Get us behind that planetoid."

"Sir? We're retreating?"

He didn't reply. But then he said, slowly, "Yes."

A new threat had come. And worse, they weren't in a condition to deal with it. Somehow, they'd have to get through this. He dropped his head into his hands, and prayed for his allies.

The carrier drifted in the shadow of the planetoid.


	11. Chapter 11

*Chapter Ten

EARTH TIME: 19th of October, 2553

Sangheili Cruiser _Mercurial Resurgence_

Gethrii

Mission Clock: 1710

Shipmaster Orbo Daruf' watched his screens, broadcasting footage from the rear of the ship. A humorless grin tugged at his mouth. A curl of smoke drifted across his face, and he brushed it away. The bizarre Jiralhanae ship was fast approaching, their turrets charging. Gilden fire gathered at their tips. Thankfully, no fighters had left the ship. Either they were holding them in reserve, or the scum did not possess any.

In his time as a Shipmaster, Orbo had seen some incredible things in space battles. But this was nothing like anything he'd ever seen. This Brute ship was armed with superior weapons, stronger and faster than plasma. Not to mention the plasma capture beam and their sophisticated Slipspace drive. It didn't require a genius to know that these were not conventional weapons, and obviously weren't from the Prophets' stores of Forerunner artifacts. Someone was helping them. But who?

No time to think of that now. He had to buy as much time as possible for the humans to conduct ground operations-and maybe even do some damage. He turned to Ref, his bridge officer, who was seated on a floating chair, surrounded by a shimmering data lattice. "Major. What is the status of the rear plating?"

"Shields at nineteen percent. Plasma coil leakage occurring on decks nine through twelve in those sections. I am sending Engineer cadres to seal them. But that will take at least four meta-units."

Orbo nodded grimly. "Very well. Launch Seraphs and bombers-that will buy us some time. Tell them to disable their turrets-if possible. Prepare to launch plasma torpedoes, then get us closer to that moon. We must needs find cover."

"Aye sir."

There was a brief shudder as the hangar shields were deactivated, and several squadrons of singleships flew out into space, charging towards the Jiralhanae vessel. Volleys of flashing laser fire impacted on its shields, which flashed silver-white. _At least their shields are still unchanged. _

The ship took exception to this assault, and responded accordingly. Blasts of golden energy discharged from its turrets, incinerating many Seraphs. More laser fire poured in, damaging the shield. But they hadn't penetrated it yet.

"Where are those bombers?" Orbo demanded.

"They are co-ordinating their target, Shipmaster."

"Tell them to hurry." The Seraphs were all but gone-only a few swooped and dived, firing. Every weapon on the Brute ship was targeting them.

"Sir, Seraph pilots are requesting to retreat-"

"Tell them to remain there! They must draw their weapon systems away so the bombers can strike. If they do so, their memories will be honored. Tell them that."

Even as Ref relayed Orbo's message, the last of the Seraphs were destroyed.

But it was time for the bombers to act-the V-shaped craft flew directly over the turrets, and dropped their charges. Glowing purple-white, they cascaded onto the weapons like raindrops and exploded, igniting like dozens of miniature suns. When the smoke dissipated, at least one of the modified turrets had been obliterated. Several others were sparking and steaming with violet smoke. Orbo sighed in relief. They were not invincible. They could be hurt. Still, this battle was far from over. "Prepare to fire plasma torpedoes. Exchange magnetic guidance protocols for heat-seekers; target where their ship ails."

"Yes sir."

Plasma streamed from the weapons coils, and the ship shuddered again as the turrets belched superheated flame. The twin arcs of plasma rushed towards the enemy ship. Orbo tensed, and waited to see what the Brutes would do.

Rather than the golden bubble that had been used before, the Jiralhanae revealed a new trick. The blots of plasma splashed across the vessel's distressed surface, but seemed to be drawn into the turrets, like it was being sucked up by a hose. By the time it was gone, no damage was visible. They may as well have used their previous method-the end result was the same.

Then Orbo realised just how wrong that assessment was. The turrets on the Brute vessel flared, and energy gathered-only it wasn't golden. It was the same colour as theirs-no, it was the _same _plasma. Orbo shelved his amazement and horror. "Brace for impact!" he roared.

The plasma raced across space and thudded onto their lateral plating-ionised gases and liquefied metal sprayed. The bridge echoed with a deafening report and sent Orbo staggering into a wall. "Damage report!" he yelled.

His Elites were coughing in the haze of purple smoke that wreathed the control room. Ref scanned his holo-screens. "Ventrals five and six are crippled. Casualties on decks three and seven. The reactor is experiencing pressure-some coils have been dislodged and the excess cannot be drained off. Unable to push it beyond half-strength, sir. We will have limited mobility."

Orbo gnashed his mandibles in frustration. Without reactor integrity, the fight would be all the harder. "How far to the moon?"

"Three hundred units, "another Elite called in.

"Send one last volley of pulse lasers, then all power forward. We cannot risk another blow."

The turrets heated, and bright blue beams arced and struck the enemy vessel. Like before, it continued undaunted, without speeding up. No doubt its captain regarded them as an irritating gnat.

That thinking, Orbo thought savagely, was wrong-headed. Despite the lessons they had learned, the Sangheili never backed down. Ages in the Covenant had not beaten that out of them. Orbo would flee for now; but he would try everything to beat these Jiralhanae fiends. Every move in this battle would tell him more. And win he would, come what may.

Mission Clock: 1720

Breathing slowly, the Elite marksman, Garom', peered through the scope of his beam rifle at the large basin below them. Massive columns of smoke rose into the sky, and the numerous forms of Brute aircraft could be seen. Behind him, the rest of the Elite squad crouched in the cover of rocks, ready for a quick flight. After a few seconds, he grunted and stood up. "It's not good, "he advised them.

"How many?" Hirf Kalok' questioned.

The Elite shrugged. "A battalion, at the least. They possess armour and air support. Also, I noticed squads of Mgalekgolo, policing the boundaries of the encampment. In any case, there are too many for us to fight. Your orders, Commander?"

Hirf rubbed his chin, and turned to Gerun. They had administered some meds, but the Elite was still shaky on his feet. Hirf had done the same with weapons-Gerun had been given a spare needler, whilst Dasa wielded a plasma rifle in place of his fuel rod gun. "Brother. View them for yourself. I desire your counsel on this matter."

"My counsel is not always the best, "Gerun rumbled. "But very well." He hobbled forward, and surveyed the enemy army.

In his mind, he could only echo Garom's comment. _This isn't good. _The ground swarmed with the barbarians. Their infernal machines-Choppers, Prowlers-were much in evidence. On one hill, Wraith tanks, bulbous and purple, were lined up in a row. The exhaust from these filled the sky, turning the scene a malignant brown. Dwarfing all this, however, were the gargantuan plasma drills and digging lasers, which made handy weapons at a pinch. They spewed huge clouds of noxious purple gas into the air, as they hummed and whirred. Brute technicians crawled over them, making adjustments.

The rock-hewn dwellings of the Brutes were dotted here and there on the plain. Animalistic howls filled the air, as the Jiralhanae roared out their war-cries. Personal contests were underway, despite the current situation. The beleaguered groups of Grunts and Jackals gave these places a wide berth. Rings were formed, and Brutes butted heads in their unceasing savagery, fighting to be the victor. It was a scene of complete debauchery. Not to mention the odds stacked against them.

Gerun's keen eye spotted something strange, however. In a rough circle within the encampment, flattish metal plating was firmly screwed into the ground. Soft wisps of smoke rose from underneath these, and lengthy steel pipes snaked from the ground around them to various battlefield generators, which in turned powered various Jiralhanae machinery-weapon cells and plasma mortars, to name a few. To any other person, they might have been simple underground energy batteries. Such things were common. However, Gerun's experiences at a certain rebel base gave it away.

He barked a laugh. "Those cunning miscreants. See what they have done?" He indicated the multiple plates.

Hirf came up beside him. "What? What is it?"

Gerun swept his arm. "They have employed plasma reactors, but concealed them well. That plating is of human design-in order to confound us. They must be generating tremendous output. I never would have thought the Brutes to be so capable of hiding this."

"But we have perceived their ploy, "Hirf reminded him. "This human plating-from where did it come?"

"Either they pillaged it from the human forces on this planet…" Gerun clenched his fists. "Or this is more proof of human rebels doing deals with the Jiralhanae. Either way, they have no qualms about using their technology. Presently, however, it is irrelevant. Could we set the reactors off?"

Hirf gestured to one of his commandos. "Torom'?"

The Elite in question tilted his head. "It depends on how volatile the finished product is. If the plasma is inactive, then no."

"I would say it is, "Gerun said roughly. "They are mobilising for an assault, after all. If we can detonate one, then it will cause a chain reaction and the entire encampment will be destroyed. A mighty blow stuck, methinks."

But Hirf shook his head. "Look at how they are arranged. The closest one is surrounded by at least a company of Brutes. We'd never make it through them. We are too few to undertake any sort of strike. Let us be away-we will fight them later on, with our main force."

Gerun squared up to Hirf, who was not as tall but more muscular. "There may not be a later on, _brother. _The Brutes could very well win this battle. If we have a chance to tip the scales in our favour, then we must not waste it."

Hirf bared his teeth. "Just as I will not waste the lives of my warriors needlessly. If you wish to proceed on this foolish venture, you do it alone." He turned away.

Gerun snarled and pulled him around. "Is it cowardice that drives you to slink away, Hirf? If so, then it is a blight I will not hesitate to excise." He reached for his sword.

Before things went any further, Dasa came forward, hand held up placatingly. "Calm yourselves; we are all brothers here. Surely there is something we can do-some blow can be struck. We must think hard." His words had the desired effect, and everyone fell silent, mulling over the situation. Suddenly, Hirf clapped his hands. "Monitor their radio traffic. Perhaps we will find something." He, along with all the other Elites, switched on their COMs, altering the wavelength until they found the correct frequency.

A wall of sound was heard, yet another layer to the cacophony already taking place. Orders, boasts and war poetry crammed the frequency. Most of it was unintelligible. However, just as Gerun was about to switch his off, another, more quieter, conversation could be heard.

"_Have there been any other incidents?"_

"_Nay, Chieftain. We have Lekgolo patrolling around the clock. Tensions remain, however. The Drinjan and the Irritak hate each other intensely."_

"_Tell them to settle, or I will personally slay every last one of them. Where does the Penitence Company stand?"_

"_Near the first reactor, pack-leader. They are keeping vigilant. Any sign of trouble, and they will act."_

"_Good."_

Gerun switched off his radio, grinning smugly. "I have something. There is division in the enemy ranks, and the company guarding the reactor is responsible for keeping the peace. If we create a diversion, we can slip past them and destroy the reactor."

Hirf shook his head doubtfully. "If we do so, the Jiralhanae will become wary and strike out into the hills. There is little cover to speak of."

"Not if we do it quickly enough, "Gerun snapped. "Besides, I have a plan to confound them."

Dasa cocked his head. "What do you have in mind?"

Remembering when he had asked Dasa that question, he smiled. "First, we must find one of their patrols."

A small detachment of Brutes wandered listlessly into the hills. None knew why they were still being sent out-despite the number of humans and Sangheili on this planet, they hadn't yet molested them in this basin. Their numbers were too great for any land force, and the digging equipment kept the skies clear. Their pack-leaders, however, stressed the need for security, and this was their fourth patrol in just two units. Fatigue bore down on them.

As they approached a rocky outcrop, the leader gestured wearily to one of his men. "Go up there and report on what you see." Grunting sullenly, the Brute wobbled up the hillside. The rest waited for him, heads bowed in exhaustion.

After a few minutes, there was a _thump_ and some rocks clacked and tumbled down the hillside. Looking up, they heard a gruff voice say, "Up here! I found something!"

Rousing themselves, the Brutes ascended the hilltop. But when they got there, they found nothing. The leader looked around. "Warrior? Where are you?"

A series of clicks and snaps were heard, and at least fourteen Elites emerged from the rocks, weapons cocked. One with black-gold armour stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous. "Drop your weapons. Now."

"Forerunners take you, Sangheili!" The leader went for his spiker, and paid the price. A thin beam of light-courtesy of Garom'- slashed through his head, blowing it off. More Elites stepped forward, and gutted them with swords. Not one of them managed to get a shot off. Their corpses lay splayed out on the ground, splatters of blood staining the rocks.

Gerun snorted, and shook his head. "No intelligence. Seize their weapons-"

"How can you say that?" Hirf interjected. "Sangheili honour has dictated that we never bend a knee in surrender. How are we any different to them in that regard?"

There was an awkward silence, then Gerun cleared his throat. "Their weapons, and their armour. We will find a use for it."

As the SpecOps commandos carried the bodies and weapons away, Gerun pulled Hirf aside. "I know these are your men, and I respect that. But do _not _question me in front of them. Understood?"

Hirf glared at him. "I will say what I see. Nothing more. Now take that hand off me, Gerun." He pulled away and walked off.

The Elite eyed his brother, and spoke to Dasa, who had stayed behind. "Keep him in line. His belligerence could cause problems."

Dasa looked troubled. "Aye."

Gerun heard something in his voice, and turned. "What is it, Dasa?"

The Elite kicked the ground in a restless way. "There was some…truth to what Hirf said. Perhaps it is from our time in the Covenant, but the Jiralhanae and the Sangheili were equally devout in battle. It would be ironic of us to-"

"Enough!" Gerun spat the word like venom. "Banish these thoughts, Dasa. You do us no good by indulging in them." He stalked off, confused thoughts flooding his mind.

When he made it back to the group, Hirf looked at him and grunted. "What now?"

Getting back to the plan made him feel better. He gestured to the small pile of Jiralhanae weapons. "Replace your commando-issue weapons for those. Any Covenant tech-beam rifles, carbines-is safe."

There was a chorus of protest. "Use their technology? Never!"

Gerun waited until it had died down. "It must be done this way, or else the plan will fail. Now, do it."

With many glares and snorts of anger, the Elites discarded their plasma rifles, plasma pistols and needlers and picked up spike rifles, brute shots and their own odd plasma rifles. Many held them gingerly, as if the weapons were covered in excrement. Gerun nodded in satisfaction. "Good. Now, use your field welders and remove the spurs and plates from their armour. Put them onto your own."

This caused a real ruckus. Hirf threw his hands up in disgust. "What is the point of this? Are we trying to masquerade as Jiralhanae?"

Gerun was amused, despite himself. "That is exactly what we are trying to do. Those Brute tribes are fractious, and an attack with their own weapons-by those clad in power armour-will almost certainly set them to quarreling." He chuckled. "An understatement. There will be complete bedlam, and we will be able to slip past."

The plan dawned on them, and some of the Elites murmured in approval. Gerun looked among them. "Who among you have skills with explosives?"

Three Elites stepped forward. Each one had a distinctive pack on their backs, shaped like several spheres stuck together. Inside were plasma charges, proton burners, antimatter pulses and many other kinds of bombs. Gerun pointed at them. "You will be with me, along with Dasa. And you, Hirf."

He was expecting an objection, and he got it. "Why do you require my presence? I would prefer to lead my men-"

"You have your sappers to command, "Gerun growled. "And I need experienced warriors, in case things take a turn for the worse. That means you." Hirf grumbled, but looked mollified.

He turned to the bodies of the Jiralhanae, which were sizzling under the welders. "One of you, read the script on that armour. What does it say?"

One bent towards a body. "Irritak."

"Perfect, "he breathed. "The rest of you, position yourselves near the tribe known as Drinjan. Use Brute weapons to start, then switch to long-range. Cause as much mayhem as possible. When the Penitence Company moves forward, flee. Seek cover."

"Will they not pursue us?" an Elite asked.

Gerun shook his head. "They'll be too busy falling upon another. Seed destruction. Meanwhile, we will sneak through and plant the charges. Meet us here afterwards." He accessed his tactical map, highlighted an area seven units north and referenced it to the surrounding headsets. "Give us a half-unit; if we have not rendezvoused with you by then, continue onward."

An Elite came forward; he held their Brute prisoner by the scruff of his neck. He was bound in a pair of aura-cuffs, which made movement impossible. Gerun had almost forgotten about him. "We will take this scum with us. He shall make an excellent shield." The Elites laughed, but Hirf shook his head. "Keep him alive. We may need him later."

"Do you all understand your duties?" Gerun queried.

The lances nodded as one. Gerun smiled, and patted his newly-issued needler. "Come. We have business with the Jiralhanae." At this, the Elites gave a roar of excitement.

Other ears were listening. Not far off, another patrol, some Brutes but mostly Grunts and Jackals, stopped and listened as the noise carried over the rocks. The one in charge halted, and motioned for silence. He turned to one of his subordinates. "What can you find?"

The addressed Brute had a better-than-average tracking system built into his helmet, which also broadcasted a scrambling signal to enemy radios. It was a valuable item, and uncommon. The light fingers of this particular Brute had rectified that, however. He was silent, then said, "They are not listed on the patrol schedule. Six are moving further off. Another eight are still in range, but moving east. Should I call this in?"

The leader was tempted. But the prospect of glory clouded his judgement. He drew his plasma rifle and grinned. "No. We can handle them, whoever they are. Be silent and swift. We will have the glory to ourselves, brothers!" The Brutes sniggered.

The Elites, wielding Brute firearms and clad in Brute effects, moved towards their target, unaware of the Covenant trailing them.

Mission Clock: 1734

Shrieking and spitting, the pair of Drinjan Jiralhanae gladiators crashed to the ground, clawing at each other's hides. The spectators surrounding the ring of stones watched approvingly, all Jiralhanae off duty and unarmored. Loud shouts and wagers of food, drink and weapons rang through the air.

Two Brutes, Dirgius and Larsus, lounged beside a plasma emitter, the Covenant equivalent of a fire. The glowing cube sent flaring shadows against the ground. Grunting, Dirgius picked up a thorn beast's forearm from a platter, and began ripping the flesh of with his filed teeth. Though not deadly like the animal's head and neck, it still contained strange toxins.

Larsus looked up from polishing his assortment of blades. "You will have unwelcome dreams tonight, brother."

"Spirit dreams, yes. They do not frighten me. Except for the endless plains of grass." He tore a large chunk off and swallowed. "Give me a desert any other time."

"Even so-"

"My mind will not waver, "Dirgius growled truculently. "Now be silent. There is still meat on this bone." He finished the food and stood up.

Jeers and laughs came from the brawl nearby-one of the fighters had won, his foe's skull pulped. All such contests were to the death. As bets and wagers were settled among the dispersing crowd, he saw, not far from their picket lines, a mob of Irritak tribesmen, pouring scorn on nearby Drinjan.

Dirgius gritted his teeth. The Irritak, their avowed enemies in the vast culture of the Jiralhanae, had been foolishly placed next to them by the war chieftains. And it was too late to reposition them. Although Lekgolo had quelled any major conflict, many fights had broken out. Either they marched soon and fought a common enemy, or they risked trouble.

His anger growing, he turned to his companion. "If those mongrels continue to harass us, I will wipe the smirks off their faces." He brandished his spiker for emphasis.

Larsus was about to respond, when his head exploded.

The beam rifle sang as a thin line of accelerated particles drilled into the Brute's skull. Blood and brains cascaded through the air, the now headless corpse toppling to the ground. Despite the fact he hadn't been standing, Garom' had picked him because of that. He wanted them to think the Irritak were attacking those who hadn't done anything. Something sure to rouse their blood.

Carbines barked in the four or so other Elites that carried them. More Brutes, their heads devoid of helmets and shielding, died easily. "Cease fire, "Garom' ordered. He then drew a spike grenade and sent it flying into the thick of the Brute encampment. His soldiers did the same. Starbursts of metal thudded into unprotected skin, and red-black blood stained the desolate ground. "Switch to Brute weapons!"

The SpecOps Elites, emplaced amongst a boulder-strewn slope that bisected the Irritak and Drinjan camps, dropped their Elite tech and seized Brute weapons. Spikes and grenades wreaked havoc in the enemy ranks. Brutes fled and roared their pain, swinging this way and that, looking for a target. Garom' turned to one of his companions, Kasur'. "Assail their ears."

The big Elite grinned and keyed his radio, affecting a rough voice. "_Run and cower, Drinjan weaklings! The Irritak are ten times the warriors you will ever be. Crawl back into your caves, dogs. Let true fighters battle, whilst you slink away." _He added a few curses in their language for good measure. All around him, black-suited Sangheili fired, reloaded and fired again.

The Drinjan, now having a focus for their anger, acted decisively. Charging over the picket lines, vengeful Brutes threw themselves at the stunned Irritak. Weapons were discharged, bodies were thrown into the air. Roving Lekgolo squads thundered into the two camps in an attempt to exercise some order, spines quivering in anger. Fuel rod guns glowed and fired. Choking dust rose over the scene.

Yet some were wiser. A few Jiralhanae with better memories formed up, and began encroaching on their position. The jig was up. Garom' grabbed his beam rifle, and beckoned to the others. "Retreat; they are aware of us. Reload all weapons. We will be under siege soon." The squad collected up their weapons, and fled uphill, keeping low. Garom', a fibre optic clenched in one hand, reversed it so he could look behind him.

The Brute armor was obviously working to some extent-the dust from the fight obscured their vision, and their pursuers took them to be Irritak runaways. As a rule, Brutes did not like to busy themselves with runaways-yet another facet of the Covenant honour system. Something that was working in their favour. Most gave up and turned back, but a few still trailed them. He keyed his COM for a second time.

Chaos ruled the radio. _"All Lekgolo, converge! Settle them, do not hesitate to use force. I want the ringleaders brought to me-they will pay dearly. Penitence Company, take control-stop these thick-headed fools!"_

Garom' silently cheered. Everything was proceeding to plan. He increased his speed, and caught up with his soldiers, who ascended the hill with long strides. Awaiting them was a ring of rocks, with jagged stones stacked up to head height. It was like a tiny fort. The Elites filed in quickly, taking up positions on the natural wall. Their prisoner sat up against a wall, barely conscious. Garom' detailed two of his men to guard the entrance, and rubbed his hands eagerly. Battle approached.

The column of Covenant soldiers was not far from this formation. When hearing the sounds of the Elites voices, they started forward, but the leader pulled them back. "Let the others wear them down, "he rumbled. "We will finish them off."

Kolbus, his vision fading, jerked his head up as he heard the faint sounds of the Brute leader. Brutes had a certain edge to their voice that could easily be identified by another Brute. He considered yelling for help, then decided against it. He just had to wait. Snuggling in between two rocks, he fell into a doze.

A group of about ten Jiralhanae had reached the top of the hill, and, unbelievably, missed the rock formation. "Fire!" Garom' ordered. His snipers obeyed with zeal, and Brutes dropped with steaming holes in their heads.

They lingered too long, however. One surviving Brute saw them, and cried out in rage. "Sangheili! Raise the alarm!" He pounded down the hillside, a flash of plasma missing him by inches. The other Brutes weren't so lucky.

Garom' swore. With Elites nearby, the Jiralhanae would put aside their differences in their massive hatred. Who knows how long they would last?

He climbed up to the rocks. "They'll be on us in force soon. We may not last."

One of his snipers, Daruk', chuckled, a rather odd reaction. "Let them come. I wish to see at least fifty Brutes dead at my feet before I fall. What say you, Garom'?"

Garom' laughed. SpecOps Elites-they'd gladly go to the gates of the Seven Hells, just for a good fight. _Perhaps not so odd._

Howls and thumping were heard. They were getting closer.

Back in the valley, the Penitence Company, battle-hardened veterans with a penchant for cruelty, mobilized themselves. Marching like a spear through the brawling encampments, they quickly defused any and all conflict. Some had to be persuaded-extensively. Fists and knives were their arguments of choice.

In all the mayhem, no-one noticed six tall figures-their armour caked in dust to dull its glimmer-break away from the cover of a hill and dash towards the reactor.

Mission Clock: 1740

Dust rose as the six Elites pounded the rocky ground. The reactor's silver cover was not far off now, a blinding glare from the sunlight. Multicoloured steam swirled and eddied from gaps in the plating. As soon as they reached it, they ducked behind a pipe to catch their breath.

Gerun glanced at Hirf, who removed his energy sword from his hip. He made to activate it, but Gerun stayed his hand. "Not yet."

Motioning for quiet, he peered around the side of their pipe. Several more lay scattered about, creating a close-quarters area. After checking again, he led them forward.

The pipes rose above them, like bloated metal Groth slugs, an insect native to his homeworld. They existed, he recalled from his studies, mainly in bushes and the bark of trees, lying in wait for prey. Slithering forward, they would clamp themselves onto an unsuspecting victim and drain their blood, until their pale skin turned bright red. Natural anesthetics in their feelers would remove the feeling of pain. If not disposed of quickly, the slugs would completely deaden a limb. There was one time-

Gerun refocused. Plenty of time to reminisce when this entire basin was a smoldering crater. He rounded another pipe, and saw a Grunt sentry standing with his back to him, plasma pistol on his belt. Darting forward, Gerun grabbed the alien around the neck and dragged him back.

It squeaked with fear as it saw the six Elites standing around him. Gerun drew him closer, eyes full of menace. "Where is the nearest entrance to the interior? Speak swiftly!"

"Ahead. Trapdoor. You go down." The Grunt's speech was fragmented from his terror.

Gerun nodded, then clapped the diminutive alien across the temples. He was out cold. Propping him up against a wall, he led his team forward.

They came to the very edge of the reactor plating now. It stretched on for at least seventy metres. On their right, a large gap was present-probably the main entrance. Armed Brutes stood in this gap. The steel crackled with static electricity. There was one patch, however, that remained unmolested by the dancing sparks. Gerun played it safe. He turned to Hirf. "Initialise radiation spectrum-what do you see?"

The Elite squinted. "There it lies. Follow me." He started across the plate.

Gerun pulled him back. "Wait-listen."

A drone was heard over the hissing of sparks. It intensified, and could finally be identified as a Prowler support vehicle, coming to a stop just before the checkpoint. Words were exchanged, and the ungainly craft moved onward. It stopped again, and its occupants got out and marched towards the plate. Judging from the wraparound helmets and bulky suits they wore, they looked like technicians. The Brute foursome opened the trapdoor, went down some steps and disappeared. The guards returned their attention to the outside.

Gerun looked at his companions. "Opinions?"

Dasa hummed doubtfully. "Extra security? Maintenance crew? Who can say?"

'Perhaps they know of our presence, "one of the sappers suggested.

"Impossible, "Hirf declared. "If so, they would throw the whole weight of their host at us. Subtlety is lost on Jiralhanae. No, these ones are simply checking something. We will wait-"

A metallic crackle filled the air, and a pair of human bombers-Shortswords-roared over the horizon, racing for the Brute encampment. Autocannons fired, cutting swathes through the Brute ranks. But the massive plasma artillery cannons turned to face them.

Filaments of plasma gathered at their bulbous tips, and eventually loosed sapphire bolts of plasma, accompanied by a thunderous boom. The Shortswords were blown apart by the barrage, and fell to earth, burning.

The answering howl of triumph from the Brute army was deafening.

Gerun snarled. "No. We cannot wait. This army could be moving to battle any time now. We have not the luxury of waiting for them to come out. We go in, we set the charges and we leave. Understood?"

Everyone reluctantly nodded. Gerun drew his sword. "Let's go."

Together the six Elites ventured across the plate, lifted up the trapdoor and proceeded into the interior.

Mission Clock: 1750

The energy blade bit into the Brute's flesh, but the animal kept its fangs embedded in Garom's arm, screaming a muffled war cry. Swearing, the Elite swung his arm into the stone wall once, twice, until his attacker dropped to the ground, his skull pulped.

They had slain countless enemies and waded through their blood-but more and more kept arriving. They'd been driven off the walls; to stand up in full view of the enemy was death. At least one whole company assailed them, and more were arriving by the unit. So far, the Brutes hadn't tried to scale the walls or bombard them with plasma-but Garom' suspected that wouldn't last long.

Four of his Elites had been killed-they'd gone down fighting, cut down by sheer weight of numbers. To make matters worse, they'd depleted their ammunition-only their swords remained charged. He'd pulled weapons from nerveless fingers, and fired them until they were dry.

He only hoped Gerun's plan was working. Else all that they sacrificed here was for naught.

Two more Brutes barged through the bloodstained gap, spike rifles firing. Garom' dodged to one side, and tossed a plasma grenade at their feet. One rolled away. The other was blown off his feet. The surviving Brute snarled and brought his weapon up-and was struck by a barrage of plasma fire. His armor fizzled, collapsed and he died.

A respite-but it was temporary, as more Brutes piled through the opening. One of his men charged forward and grappled vainly with the press of Brutes, managing to cut one down, but was soon overwhelmed, trampled beneath them. One Brute reached down, cut off the dead Elite's mandibles and clipped them to his belt as a trophy.

Cold rage filled his limbs, and Garom' bounded forward to close with the six Brutes. "Cover me!" he barked to two startled Elites, and swung his sword.

A piercing shriek was heard as a Brute lost his right arm, and flopped to the ground. Two more Brutes grabbed Garom's arms, but he wriggled free and swung twice more. Brutes died. Another one, with a cry of rage, hopped backwards to gain space and raised his carbine to fire.

Quick as a flash, Garom' grabbed an unsuspecting Brute and pulled him in front of him. The Brute with the carbine had already fired, and Garom' felt the Brute sag against him as blood ran down its neck. Flinging it aside, he resumed his attack.

"Brutes! Witness a Sangheili's rage!"

The last Brute had terror stamped across its face, and attempted to run. Finding a wall in its path, he darted left and right, the murderous Elite advancing on him. Knowing he was trapped, the Brute drew a spike grenade, primed it and thrust it at Garom'.

Without blinking, the Elite sheathed his sword, met the oncoming grenade and, grabbing it in two hands, reversed it and drove it through the alien's shoulder. The razor head of the grenade lodged in the wall. Kicking and screeching, the Jiralhanae tried to extricate itself, but too late. Beeping reaching fever pitch, it detonated, spraying chunks of meat everywhere.

Breathing heavily, Garom' dropped to one knee. His rampage had drained his reserves. Outside, he heard the clamoring of the Brutes company. Obviously, they were debating on what to do next. His Elites were arrayed behind him, silent. One brought his hands to his shoulder blades-a typical Sangheili salute. He faced them. "This is far from over. Be ready-"

The back wall exploded.

The Brute leader and his band had heard the other Brutes attack, and waited a while. Eventually, he heard a Sangheili war cry. "They are committing themselves!" he snapped. "Toss plasma grenades."

A clutch of Grunts and Jackals waddled forward, primed their explosives and tossed them in droves. Glowing sapphire, their brightness pulsed and detonated. A massive piece of rock shattered and a smoking gap was revealed. "Forward!"

The group of thirty-something Covenant charged towards the breach, intent on murder.

Spitting gravel, Garom' climbed to his feet. The explosion had taken them all by surprise, burying two of his men beneath granite boulders. All around him, Elites growled, shaking their heads to clear the ringing in their ears. Coughing grit, Garom' surveyed the original entranceway. The explosion had caused a cascade of loose rocks and scree to block the entrance. That would hold them, for a while. Until the Brutes started burning their way through.

Barks and growls were heard-and Covenant troops poured through the gap, plasma weapons firing and impacting on their shields. Unggoy in conical orange helmets, Kig-Yar wielding luminescent energy gauntlets and-at the back-six Brutes, shouting orders. He snapped a look at his own troops-only seven commandos left. "Arise!" he rapped out. "To the slaughter! Switch to your swords!"

The SpecOps Elites drew their signature weapons and vaulted into the thick of their enemies. Glowing blades swept back and forth, sending blood and limbs through the air. The cowardly Unggoy shrieked their fear, some throwing away their arms in wholesale retreat.

The Kig-Yar were far more disciplined. Forming tight wedges, they overlapped their shields and fired on the Elites. One flailed wildly at a thick of shields, nearly breaking through-until a volley of spikes brought him down. The ferocity of the Elites attack was stalling. They scrabbled to find what cover they could.

Meanwhile, Kolbus sat up at the sight of his brethren moving through. "Help me!" he begged them.

The leader looked at him and sneered. "You have been captured by Elites, pup. Our laws require that you die." He raised his spiker blades. Eyes widening, Kolbus shrank back.

But as luck would have it, things changed at that moment.

Garom' was about to order a retreat, when Daruk' drew a plasma grenade from his belt. "Fall back!" he told his teammates. "I will deal with this rabble."

"How?" Garom' asked, ducking a plasma bolt.

Daruk' chuckled, a manic light in his eyes. "I would have liked fifty Brutes to my name. But I will settle for Kig-Yar. Forerunners protect you." He charged headlong at the Jackal phalanx.

"What are you doing?" Garom' yelled at him. Daruk' turned his head and laughed. "Buying you passage!"

The Jackals, mystified, opened fire. His armor scorched and blackened. But his momentum was undaunted.

Daruk' primed the grenade and threw it straight down.

A blue flash of fire, and the Kig-Yar group was blown apart. Gore rained down. There was no sign of Daruk's remains. Their brother had sacrificed himself in the entire.

Garom' watched gravely. Then waved his Elites forward. "Finish them off."

The Brute leaders were evidently surprised that things had turned so quickly. Gaping at their wasted ranks, they turned to run. They had no long-range weapons to hand.

Still, Garom' was not worried. Apart from their tenacious fighting spirit, there was something else that the Xonnel legions were famous for…

He turned to his remaining warriors. "Throw."

They held their swords flat in their hands, then flipped them through the air.

The Brutes staggered as the swords impaled them from behind. Sinking low to the dirt, they died, the shining blades standing out against their dull armour.

Walking over, Garom' extracted his sword, along with the other SpecOps Elites. He turned to Kasur'. "How long has it been?"

The Elite checked his mission clock. "The time has passed."

Garom' was silent. Then he said, "We must follow orders. We make for the rendezvous point."

"But what of Hirf and Gerun-"

"No!" Garom' snapped. "They are warriors. They understand the risks. Let us make haste-the Brutes will soon realise we are not trapped inside."

One Elite emerged from the rocks, holding Kolbus by the scruff of his neck. "This wretch survived. I will carry him."

"Very good." The meagre squad of Elites started moving into the thick of grey trees. Before they left, Garom' took one last look at the rocky pile. _Rest in peace, brother._

He then turned his gaze to where the Brute encampment lay. Though he could not see it, he muttered another benediction. "Forerunners keep them safe!"

Mission Clock: 1753

Silently, the six Elites ventured down the crudely-welded stairs. So far, nothing but a thin passageway, with no lighting. Occasionally, fitful wisps of steam oozed out of these walls. There was no sign of the Brutes.

His breathing shallow, Gerun kept his eyes fixed forward. Walking forward, he found the floor growing thinner. "The terrain ahead is uncertain. Does someone possess a flare?" Elites had long since discontinued the addition of flashlights to their armour. Not such a good idea, in hindsight.

Hirf squeezed his way forward. "Move. I have a plasma pistol." Setting it to overcharge, he turned it on.

Ahead of them, the path ended, and an elevator shaft began. But instead of a lift, there was a simple rope, dangling from a hook. Hirf sniffed disdainfully. "A rope? Have they no sophistication?"

"Evidently not, "Gerun said, eyeing it. "Very well. We proceed one at a time; myself first. If I find Brutes below, I will hold them off. Then you can escape. Understood?"

They all nodded. Gerun backed up a few steps, and leapt.

He managed to grab the rope, but swung into the far wall, banging his head. Seeing stars, he shook his head and started rappelling down.

The drop seemed endless. His hands went over, under, over on the rope. His shields shimmered slightly as it bit into his hand. His brothers watched-they knew that if he was to fall, he would make no outcry.

After what seemed an eternity, he saw the glint of black steel below, and let go of the rope. He hit the ground, needler drawn. After realizing no fire was incoming, he whistled up the shaft. Once his companions had clambered down, they all observed what lay before them.

Another shaft lay before them-but much bigger. The plasma reactor-cylindrical, purple and flaring bright against the darkness-occupied the centre. Hastily made catwalks surrounded it, dropping below several metres. Above their heads, massive pipes led to the surface. Small windows dotted the reactor's alloy, through which luminous plasma could be seen, moving at a speedy rate towards the pipes.

There was no sign of the Brute technicians, or anyone else. Hirf removed a small data pad. "Bearing six-nine-six, "he muttered. "That is the best place to arm the charges, if this information is to be believed." He sent the co-ordinates to their headsets.

"Right." Gerun indicated a nearby ladder. "Move. Quickly, quietly." The Elites dashed from cover, past a thrumming plasma coil, and to the ladder.

Even as they climbed (with difficulty-Sangheili physique was not designed for ladders), Gerun strained to hear the slightest noise, apart from the reactor. Nothing. It was as if the Brutes had disappeared into thin air.

When they made it to the top, they looked around. The catwalks were mostly unfinished, but many of them clustered around the reactor's bulk. If they got into a fight, they'd be in close quarters. Hirf took point, but quickly ducked back. Motioning for silence, he pointed.

A pair of Grunts, clad in white specialist gear, came into view, trundling a trolley. More fusion materials for the reactor, apparently. Their breath was muffled by their breathing masks. Gerun tapped Hirf on the shoulder, pulled out his sword and nodded.

Hirf nodded back, and the two Elites stepped out of the shadows, racing towards the Grunts.

Hirf's sword cleaved one apart, splashing blue blood across the catwalk. Gerun slashed one across the chest, but before it fell, it bumped the trolley and a canister of something tipped off the trolley, hitting the floor with a clang.

Gerun winced, waited for more Covenant to come and investigate the noise. But nothing happened. An ominous silence descended on them.

This lack of activity was creeping him out. "This place grows foreboding, "he muttered to Hirf. "Let us be done with this and return to the surface."

"Aye."

The six Elites approached the reactor tentatively. These things could be unstable. After making sure it was relatively safe, Hirf nodded to his sappers. "Go."

The three Elites nodded, and set off. They spread out around the reactor, attaching plasma charges to its walls at precise angles and positions. It was a subtle art. Gerun, Dasa and Hirf began patrolling, in case the sappers needed protection.

There was a sudden rasp-like a foot sliding on metal-and the trio whirled around, weapons cocked. Nothing moved from the dark interior.

Minutes passed, and still nothing happened. Gerun watched his comrades work. They'd used a adhesive webbing from their packs to create a lattice for the charges. The process was painstakingly slow, however. "How much longer?" he demanded.

A sapper looked up. "A fifth of a unit, Gerun."

Gerun shook his head. "Too long. Complete the bare minimum and let us be away." He strode off a slight distance to wait.

A small piece of piping clattered next to him. He frowned, looked around, then up.

And the Brute chieftain, clad in gold armor and clinging to the overhead pipes like an oversized ape, launched himself off the beams with a roar.

At the same time, four Brutes dashed from the shadows, weapons firing.

The chieftain crashed into Gerun, its momentum sending the pair skidding along the floor. Seeing stars, the Elite lay dazed-but his assailant left him there, believing him dead. Grasping the haft of its hammer lashed to its back, it attacked.

One of the sappers near the reactor saw it coming, and attempted to stop the hammer in vain. The massive metal head sent the unfortunate Elite over the railing with a scream.

Cold rage filled Gerun's limbs, and he got up, surveyed the scene. The four Brutes were crouched behind pipes, firing. Hirf and Dasa were holding them off, but only barely. The other sappers were frantically trying to disengage from the lattice.

He drew his sword, and attacked.

The chieftain had just finished taking another swing at the sappers when the plasma blade's keen edge seared its armor, causing it to drop the hammer. Roaring its pain, it whirled around, planting a solid kick into Gerun's ribs. Twisting sideways to avoid the worst of it, he deactivated his sword, rammed his elbow into its right cheek and used the other hand to gouge its face.

In this position, Gerun managed to grapple the Brute until it grabbed his shoulders and flung him to one side. Banging his head on a rail, he half-turned and saw the reactor behind him. A plasma charge hung from a sloop of webbing, and this gave him an idea. He grabbed it.

The Brute stumbled towards him, hands reaching for him. Gerun swung the bulky charge with two hands, crumpling the Brute's muzzle-plate with a clang. Spitting blood, it reeled back.

Gerun sprang to his feet and pulled several needles from his belt. Charging forward, he stabbed them into the Brute's left hip. Blood poured from the wounds.

Snarling, the chieftain headbutted him, and tried to extricate the glowing pink shards. Gerun recovered from the blow and clapped the alien on the sides of his head, stunning it. He made to circle around it, but it smashed a fist into his chest, sending him several metres.

He looked behind him, and saw a dizzying drop. He was on an unfinished catwalk. If he had gone any further, he would have fallen to his death.

A growl reached his ears, and he saw the Brute chieftain, now holding its hammer, advancing on him.

Hirf lobbed another plasma grenade into the thicket of columns and piping. It exploded, sending blue-white shadows flaring against the walls. But the Brutes were unharmed. Spikes whistled through the air, narrowly missing the last two sappers.

He looked to his right, and saw Dasa firing his plasma rifle, to little effect. "Brother!" he yelled over the din. "Protect the sappers!"

Dasa glanced at him. "Those Brutes must be killed. We cannot simply hold them off. Sooner or later, the sappers will be killed."

"I know." More gunfire echoed through the chamber. Then, an idea struck him. "Dasa! Can you draw them forward?"

The heavy weapons specialist shook his rifle as the excess energy drained off. "Perhaps. Why?"

"Do it! I have a plan." Hirf shrank behind a pillar, preparing the last of his grenades.

Dasa pulled out his spiker, and dual-wielded both firearms. As he sent a hail of fire towards the Brutes' position, he yelled out, "Come forward if you be warriors, Jiralhanae! A few Sangheili should not trouble great ones such as you. Come closer, and perhaps I'll return this spike rifle!" He fired again.

Stung into prideful outrage, the quartet of Brutes grew bolder. Edging forward, they renewed their assault on the Elites, coming to stand in line with a large column. None of them noticed Hirf, slowly coming out of cover, a fistful of blue orbs in his massive hand.

Dasa yelled out as two spikes punctured his shoulder, and he dropped his plasma rifle. The Brutes bunched to attack-

Three plasma grenades arced through the air-and went _past _the Brutes. Instead, they landed at the base of the column. They pulsed once, and detonated.

There was a terrible screeching of torn metal as the column came free of its bindings and toppled sideways onto the catwalk. The Brutes attempted to run, but the massive beam sheared through the walkway, sending them to a horrible death. Their screams echoed dimly up the shaft. The column followed them, bouncing off the walls. Steam hissed from the rent, and klaxons blared in alarm.

Hirf grunted in satisfaction, and looked around for more contacts.

Seeing the Brute chieftain bearing down on Gerun, he drew his sword and shouted a war-cry, charging towards the enemy.

Gerun tensed as the hammer swung down, and rolled to the right. As the massive steel head drove into the catwalk, Hirf arrived on the scene.

The gleaming blade gouged the Brute's back, and it screamed with pain. Turning, it slammed the pole of its hammer into the Elite's abdomen. This did not deter him. Hirf sheathed his sword and threw a punch that snapped the Brute's head back. Two more followed, and the weakening alien stumbled weakly-

Gerun crashed into the Brute's back, trying to hold its arms back. Shaking its shoulders like a dog, Gerun was sent flying backwards, along the catwalk, and over the edge.

He stifled a yell of terror, as his spindly fingers grabbed the edge of the catwalk. He looked below him, saw a black abyss, and swallowed.

"Gerun!" Hirf shouted in alarm, and tried to get to him. But the Brute stood in his way, clumsily warding him off with a hand. Hirf looked for an opening.

And found it.

He lashed out with his foot, up into the fork of his enemy's legs. Whimpering, it dropped to the floor. Hirf stepped around it, and bent down to Gerun. "Grab my hand!"

With an effort, Gerun swung his right hand up, and wrapped it around Hirf's. Grunting with the strain, Hirf helped Gerun back onto the catwalk. He wiped a hand across his forehead. "Be careful where you step-"

"Look out!" Gerun yelled.

The chieftain had recovered, and, eyes slavering with hate, swung the hammer at Hirf.

The Elite ducked the blow, and dived between the Brute's legs, ending up behind it. He swung the sword with a cry of triumph-

And missed as the Brute sidestepped the sword and retaliated with the hammer.

The sparking head smashed Hirf in the ribs, sending him end over end through the air. By pure chance, he hit a support beam, bounced off it and fell. He was not moving.

The Brute sniffed in contempt, and turned to finish Gerun off. But it was too slow.

Gerun grabbed his sword, lunged forward and skewered the alien through the heart. With a gurgling snarl, it toppled off the blade, its mad rampage over.

Gerun dashed over to Hirf, who had been propped into a sitting position by Dasa. The last two sappers came out of cover and made their way over, one getting out a med-pack. Gerun looked around worriedly. "They will be here soon. Are you fit to stand, brother?"

Hirf shook his head and coughed out blood, staining the metal catwalk purple. "The wretched fiend was quicker than I thought. I must be getting slow in my old age." He half-coughed, half-laughed. One of the sappers knelt, and began checking for internal injuries. After a few second, the Elite shook his head. "His ribcage is crushed. Any movement will provoke this wound further. He cannot be moved-he requires medical attention, and I do not have the equipment nor expertise."

Gerun wrung his hands. "There must be a way. What of an internal stasis field? I know some units carry them-"

Hirf raised his head, his eyes bleary with pain. "Save it, Gerun. I understand the situation perfectly. You must away. I will stay here and guard the charges."

"Foolishness, "Gerun said harshly. "There is no need for a last stand-"

"I'm afraid there may be, "a sapper cut in quietly. "The gravitational residue from the Brute's hammer affected some of the arming mechanisms. If they are not monitored, they could shut off entirely."

A silence descended on the group. Gerun sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "So soon, Hirf? We were an effective team. There was much glory to be had, I think."

His wounded brother smiled weakly. " "Let no glory stand in the way of fruitful lives, long summers and peace." "

Gerun smiled back at him. "I know that quotation. _Lives of the Conquered,_ Premier Aesthetic of Vadam'. You are quite the scholar."

Hirf shakily got to his feet, gasping with pain. "As are we all, brother. Now, be off with you. You have no more time for debate. Go. Finish this fight, take this planet and take one step closer towards peace for the entire galaxy."

Dasa and the sappers nodded gravely, and made for the exit. Hirf beckoned Gerun close, his breathing ragged. "I have one last thing to say to you brother. Remember how I said the Jiralhanae were little different from us?"

Gerun was still unwilling to return to that moment. "Yes, "he said mulishly.

"Well. There may come a time when you must differ friend from foe. Tradition is not an argument, brother-remember this. There are far worse fates than being devout. Do what is best for the Sangheili-not for your own pride."

Gerun nodded gravely. "I understand, Hirf. May you find paradise."

Hirf clasped his brother's hand in farewell. "Thank you. Now, go."

Gerun bounded down the catwalk, towards the entrance shaft. Hirf watched him go, one of his hands wrapped about his hip in an effort to keep himself upright. His vision darkened at the edges, and he shook his head to clear it. He inspected one of the charges-it read 13:27.

A sound. He strained to hear over the sounds of the alarms and hissing steam. Another column weakened from the added pressure and folded in on itself. Barks, growls-yes, definitely growls. There were more Covenant on the way.

Hirf gritted his mandibles savagely, and activated his sword, his faithful old weapon. He recalled the day he earned it, after seven strenuous years at the Yermo War College. His kinsmen had been proud, his mentor especially so. His induction into the Xonnel legions had set him on the road to glory and incomparable achievement. And now, it seemed, that road was at an end. He looked at the glyphs etched on the hilt-_blade of white, unbelievers fright._

He had thirteen minutes-only thirteen-to show these treacherous dogs what a Sangheili was made of. Oh, they would overwhelm him in the end, but they would feel his rage before then. He searched around, and saw his discarded plasma pistol on the floor. That would be useful. He bent down, and picked it up, ignoring he pain racing through him.

He only hoped that Gerun and the others would make it away in time. He hoped the warriors under his command had survived their gambit. He hoped-

He staggered, and he felt his ribs creak in distress. Biting back the pain, Hirf Kalok', Commander of the Twelfth Lance of the Xonnel legion, raised his rifle and fired on the first Covenant to appear.


	12. Chapter 12

_***Chapter Eleven**_

_**EARTH TIME: 19th**__** of October, 2553**_

_**Brute Muster **_

_**Gethrii**_

_**Mission Clock: 1800**_

_**With a grunt, Gerun gripped the rope with both hands and began hauling himself upwards, muscular forearms bulging. Dasa and the sappers weren't far behind. All about him, the walls were trembling and groaning. Something had been set off, apparently.**_

_**As soon as they'd reached the top, Gerun stopped the others just before the entrance. Poking his head through the trapdoor, he scanned for targets. Nothing. **_

_**They emerged from the darkness and into the weak sunlight. The air still sweltered. The plate's reflective surface crackled under their feet. Gethrii's sun had long since reached its zenith and had begun the gradual descent. In a few hours night would spread its cloak over the land. A protracted ground war with the Jiralhanae at night? The stuff of nightmares, indeed.**_

**The entrance was still guarded by Brutes, but they had their backs turned. For now, they were safe. Still, he was taking no chances. The group dashed to the safety of the pipe maze. Crouching behind a conduit, they convened a quick council of war.**

**Gerun rounded on one of the sappers. "How much time is left?"**

"**Eleven minutes, twelve seconds, "the Elite reported.**

"**Right." He looked about. "We have to get to the rally point. But we shall never make it on foot. Ideas?"**

"**Secure a vehicle, "Dasa offered.**

**Gerun nodded. "The Jiralhanae will be guarding them, however. And it must accommodate all of us." **

**Dasa snapped his fingers. "The Prowler! We can take it and flee!"**

**One of the sappers looked around. "But where is it? The Brute technicians parked it here, but I no longer see it-"**

**Gerun ground his teeth. "Stay here. I will go to investigate." He slipped away, heading back towards the plate.**

**Minutes passed, and the Elites shifted nervously. No-one wanted to be here when the reactor blew. Dasa expected nothing less than a steaming crater when it did. And Hirf would be here at that time. Forerunners guard you, brother.**

**Eventually Gerun came back, face grim. "I have found it. But it lies in a vehicle compound past the gates, surrounded by Brutes. We'll have to walk straight into the midst of them."**

**Silence.**

**Gerun shrugged. "We have to try. There is no other course of action."**

**Dasa scratched his chin. "Think. We are deep inside their territory-they do not expect a concerted attack. The **_**last **_**thing they would suspect would be Sangheili stealing their craft."**

**At this, a slow smile crept across Gerun's features.**

**The Brute guard, Balk, had been on duty for over nine units now, and his initial air of vigilance had gone. All he wished was to rest. At first, he had relished the responsibility, but soon realised that his pack-leaders had palmed off a thoroughly lousy task on him. Wearily, he reached down to free his bottle of thralva juice. Tugging away the stopper, he drank deeply.**

**Quietly, twin prongs of plasma entered his back. Eyes widening, his nerveless fingers trembled, and the bottle slipped from his grasp. He tried to make a noise, but failed. The heat of the blade was all-consuming. There wasn't even any pain.**

**After what seemed an eternity, it slid from his back. He dropped to his knees, only half-aware of what was happening. Around him, he heard footsteps in the dirt. Gigantic figures stood above him. **_**Sangheili. In the camp. I have to warn the others. The others.**_

**But once again, he couldn't speak. Balk died, that last thought repeating itself in his head.**

**Gerun glanced right, and saw Dasa dealing with the other guards. They flopped to the ground, throats slit. Making sure none remained, he waved them forward. Emerging from the safety of the reactor compound, they entered the main camp.**

**So far, no-one had noticed them yet. There were few shanties and camps close to the reactor. That would not last. One Brute passing by looked up, and started. "Halt! What are you-"**

**Without blinking, Gerun stabbed the alien through the chest, killing him instantly. The Elites continued their march across the hardpan, coming ever closer to the collection of Brute vehicles. One on side, the Prowler sat. Opposite, five Choppers stood in a row. A twine fence, tied to stakes, encompassed the area.**

**Only a few Brutes guarded the haphazard clutch of craft, and these were nodding off in the unrelenting blaze of Gethrii's sun. One raised its head, spotted the approaching Sangheili and barely had a chance to stand up before its head disappeared in a spray. One of the sappers reloaded his carbine. A flurry of fire dropped the other three where they stood.**

"**Dasa, "Gerun barked. "Secure the Prowler. Sappers, guard him." Dasa hurried over to the ungainly support vehicle, settled into the driver's seat and touched the activation panel. Nothing happened. "It will not start!"**

**Gerun looked around-Brutes had been attracted by the gunfire and were coming to investigate. "Dasa, check the engine!" He ducked behind a Chopper for cover, needler drawn.**

**Dasa flipped open the cowling of the engine and made a face. "The engine is fried. Plasma scoring on both propulsion generators. These Brute fools could not manage an infant's sled!"**

"**Never mind that!" Gerun snapped. "Can you fix it?" The growls of the Brutes were growing ever closer.**

**Dasa nodded. "I have been cross-trained on Brute vehicles. But I shall need your sword!"**

"**What for?" Gerun inquired, tossing the hilt to Dasa. It became apparent as Dasa activated the blade, went to the nearest chopper, sawed its engine hatch open and began removing parts. Seeing the Brutes upon them, he beckoned the sappers to him.**

**Five Brutes had entered the enclosure. Sniffing about, they gripped their spike rifles warily. One ambled in a small lane between two Choppers.**

**With a rending screech, one of the Choppers was pushed inward. The unfortunate Brute tried to hold it back, but to no avail. It was crushed between the two metal hulks.**

**Gerun stepped out from behind the last Chopper. "Seeking retribution, Jiralhanae dogs? Come and get it." He opened fire.**

**With a howl the four remaining Brutes charged at him. Gerun killed one with a flurry of needles, but the three continued unscathed. Gerun stood his ground-**

**Out of one of the small lanes, two plasma grenades pitched forth, and scored direct hits on the Brutes armor. Battle rage turned to panic. "Get it off!" one managed to scream, before being consumed by a sapphire blast.**

**Dasa emerged from behind the Prowler and set to work, holding a clutch of engine parts cannibalized from the Chopper. Lowering himself into the engine space, he began attaching them. Sparks fizzled.**

**Gerun kept his eye fixed on the area beyond the enclosure. No doubt about it-the Brutes were closing in, like sharks around a swimmer. Even now, Brutes were streaming out from tents, buckling on their weapons and armour. The time for secrecy was over. Gerun grabbed a spike rifle and grenades from one of the dead Jiralhanae, and opened fire. The sappers, crouched in the shades of the Choppers, did the same.**

**Two Brutes fell down, dead. The others kept pressing, returning fire. Gerun winced as a stray spike shattered against the Chopper's engine, sending red-hot powder everywhere. He fired with both weapons, and killed two more Brutes. But they couldn't keep this up much longer. He saw a pair of Grunt tenders bringing up a plasma turret. If that was brought online they were doomed. The blast from a grenade knocked him back, and he banged his head onto the Chopper's seat. Staring dazed at the driving panel, he got an idea.**

**Most of the Brutes had formed a tight semicircle around the vehicle depot. So far, none had bothered to flank the beleaguered Sangheili warriors. Spikes chattered, and grenades were thrown with complete disregard to their vehicles. A few Brutes howled their battle fury, eager to rend Elite flesh. By now, return fire had slackened off.**

**So it came as a complete surprise when one of the Choppers came alive and rocketed forward with a roar.**

**Brutes screamed as the massive attack vehicle plowed through their ranks, sending dismembered limbs through the air. The Grunt pair with the plasma cannon barely had time to squeak as they were consumed by its whirring blades. It continued its mad rampage until it crashed to a halt against a boulder. The ground was littered with groaning, wounded Brutes.**

**Gerun silently cackled. It had been a simple matter to jam the handles forward and activate the engines. He looked over his shoulder. "Dasa! Have you completed the repairs?"**

**The heavy weapons specialist was covered in soot, and was straining at something inside the Prowler. "Almost, "he grunted.**

"**Well, hurry up!" Gerun's normal urbanity was wearing thin. He drilled a spike into the chest of one Brute trying to crawl away, and looked for more targets.**

**Suddenly the Chopper next to him was shunted towards him. With a yelp, Gerun grabbed the massive wheel, trying to hold it back. He could feel the vehicle's barbs pressing into his chest. If he stayed here much longer he'd be crushed. Whoever was pushing the vehicle possessed enormous strength, to be doing this.**

**Underneath the Chopper, he could see a pair of hairy feet, encased in metal sandals, planted solidly against the ground. With a tremendous effort, he reached down with one hand, grabbed his needler and fired.**

**There was a yell of pain, and the pressure slackened. Gerun used this to drop down, and crawl out from between the two vehicles. Standing up, he faced his attacker.**

**A truly massive Brute-one of the biggest he'd ever seen-stood facing him. It wore strange armour-completely black, with a visor that completely obscured its face. Glaring red eyes gleamed through tiny slits. A jagged blade made of black iron was clenched in a gauntleted fist. A spiked cuirass-made of the same material-covered its muscular torso. It looked nothing less than a human knight-or what he'd been told of them by his human companions.**

**The sole exception to this was held in the Brute's other hand. A Brute firearm that he'd never seen. A tubular barrel-shaped like a log-had a pair of bent blades attached to the end, like a scarab beetle's pincers. Sparks of blue plasma flickered between the two extended spikes, and at the end of the barrel, there was a hole. Inside it, whirring gears and others machinery was seen, bathed in a fiery orange light.**

**The apparition loosed a throaty roar, muffled by its helmet. It raised the weapon and fired.**

**Gerun flew backwards, the blast sending him tumbling into the dirt. Raising his head, he saw several metal points sticking out of his chest. A few seconds later, they sprang apart, like claws. Flesh tore, and he roared in pain. He felt as though his ribs had exploded through his chest. He tried to stand up, and barely managed it.**

**The sappers were alerted, and opened fire on the lone Brute. Shields shimmered, and it was driven back a step. But a burst of fire from the strange new weapon forced them to duck for cover. It charged forward with surprising speed. "I am Furius!" it bellowed.**

**Gerun ducked as the black blade whistled over his head, and launched a punch at the Brute's neck, where it was more exposed. His hand hit solid bone, and vibrations raced up his hand. A return strike from his opponent sent his sprawling. He tried to focus, and saw the Jiralhanae's gargantuan form appear above him. An iron-shod foot was raised to descend upon his face.**

**Suddenly the Brute staggered backwards, as jets of blue plasma thudded into it. Gerun looked around, to see Dasa seated in the Prowler's turret, pouring heavy fire onto the Brute attacker. Its shielding was still holding, but not for much longer. Amazingly, it pointed its gun at Dasa and fired, sending a spray of the metal points thudding into the vehicle. Dasa grimaced but kept firing. Eventually, its shields collapsed, and it was forced to retreat. "Get on board!" he snapped. He swiveled, and raked the new Brute attackers that were now appearing.**

**Gerun got up, and settled into the driver's seat, touching various holo-panels. The seat lifted off the ground, and a thrumming noise could be heard. The controls glowed purple-red. "Mount up, warriors!" he called. "Time grows short." He checked his time-only 5:38 remaining.**

**The two sappers fired a last volley, and hustled aboard the Prowler, taking up positions on either side. Gerun gunned the throttle. "Hold on." The vehicle jumped forward.**

**And came to a crashing halt. Gerun smacked his head on the console painfully. He looked at what was ahead of them.**

**Furius had grasped the Prowler's front ram, and was stubbornly pushing it in the other direction. Digging its feet in, sweat ran from holes in its armour. But it did not falter. "I am as a mountain. You will not defeat Furius!" Clearly this Brute was some sort of champion. Albeit a single-minded one.**

**Gerun increased the acceleration, but to no avail. "Shoot him!"**

**One of the sappers acted-but not with a weapon. Reaching into his pack, he removed a compressed pack of the webbing they had used in the reactor. Languidly, he tossed it at the Brute's face.**

**It howled as the constricting, rubbery webs enveloped its helmet, eliminating what little breathing space it had. The Brute might have been a titanic figure, but it was as mortal as any other. Its breaths grew ragged, gasping. Its grip slackened, and Gerun seized his chance. He powered forward.**

**With an unpleasant crunch, Furius disappeared under the Prowler, and they bumped over him. Gerun glanced behind him, and saw the Brute getting up, clawing the lattice from its face. **_**Spirits below, how can that beast withstand such punishment**_**? Fervently, he hoped to never face it again.**

**Furius spat out the last fragments of web, his mind filled with bloodlust-his normal state, in other words. None were permitted to do such things and live! Casting his eyes about, they came to rest on the row of Choppers. Lumbering over, he mounted up, engaged the throttle and began his pursuit. He gave no regard to the unfortunates that got in his way-only to his slighted ego.**

**Back to Gerun. There was at least another two hundred metres before they were free of the Brute encampment. Ahead was a medley of tents, machinery and above all, Covenant. Gerun did his best to aim away, but it was impossible. There were just too many objects in the way.**

**Tents, power cells and numerous other things flew through the air as the Prowler blazed a path. Brutes dived for cover, but some fired on them. A grenade whistled dangerously close to his head. They jinked from side to side, the debris beneath them proving greatly impeding.**

**Eventually, they passed through the storm of mayhem and were on their way out. But not far behind were innumerable Choppers and other Prowlers, thrown together in a hasty pursuit. They needed to head that off. What lay ahead gave him an idea.**

**One of the big laser drills rose before them, still pulsing with blue energy. It cast a massive shadow over the camp. A complex twisting support structure of metal beams lay underneath it, still fresh from welding. "Dasa!" Gerun yelled over the thunderous noise of the engine. "Target the supports!"**

**The Elite opened up-pulses of plasma scored hits against the dark metal, and flakes of it fluttered away. But nothing happened. Soon they would be past it. "Keep firing!" The sappers joined in-pouring small arms fire at the beams.**

**Dasa sent a concentrated stream of bolts at the supports-and was rewarded with a snap and a groaning noise that rose in crescendo. Beams snapped, and the entire edifice began to fall. Back in the direction of the oncoming Brute vehicles. Covenant shrieked and attempted to run for safety as the laser drill toppled towards their camps. It would not save them.**

**Though Gerun did not see the construction die-see it crumple, crushing countless enemy soldiers beneath its bulk-he felt it. A shockwave rippled through the tightly packed ground underneath them, and its rumbling shook them. When it subsided, a choking cloud of orange dust rose to replace it. Even at this distance, Gerun heard the Covenant screaming in pain and shock. But they were free.**

**Gerun laughed gaily as he eased the Prowler into a steady speed. As they climbed out of the basin, he saw a vista of hills and valleys ahead of them. It stretched to the horizon. Thankfully, they did not need to traverse all of it. "Dasa, transfer the rendezvous point's co-ordinates to the Prowler's navigational device, "he commanded. "We can ill afford to become lost in these hills-"**

**A jarring bolt of metal streaked past them, carving a rock in half. Gerun snapped a look behind them.**

**Five Choppers-snorting oily flames and creating plumes of dust-were chasing them. Evidently they had outran the laser drill's collapse. Their afterburners roared as the Brute pilots desperately tried to catch up with the fleeing Sangheili warriors. Dasa turned in his seat and fired back. Gerun swore-would there be no end to this? The rules had changed.**

**Forsaking what he had said before, he spotted a low canyon, and entered it. With any luck, he would be able to throw off his pursuers. Failing that, they could always fight, despite the odds that were against them. But when were the odds last in our favour? **_**Ah, victory is no easy thing nowadays.**_

**The Brutes, powering forward on their assault craft, followed Gerun and entered the canyon.**

**Meanwhile, back in the basin, things were beginning to heat up…**

**Mission Clock: 1806**

**Hirf Kalok' fired on the fleeing Jackal with his plasma rifle, its charge nearly depleted. It shrieked and fell, smouldering, to the floor. Other corpses-a mix of Covenant races-lay scattered around it.**

**He had suffered wounds-plenty of them. Third-degree burns covered his right thigh, which had only exacerbated his rib injury. A Brute's flailing fists had fractured his right hand, making it hard to hold his sword. To cap it off, a raging pain burned behind his eyes. All in all, it was a miracle he was still standing.**

**Gasping, he eyed the charges on the reactor. Every second that passed by was agonisingly slow. Hirf had accepted his death. But waiting for it was quite something else. They now read 4:34.**

**As was the habit with exhausted warriors, his mind wandered. Back to Sangheilios, his beloved home. To the Kalok' estates, where the silver-capped mountains watched over the placid lakes, where terraced farmlands stretched to the horizon. The smell of the lonna crops in spring-now there was something he had not smelt in some time-**

**A bolt of plasma narrowly missed his head and splattered on the wall beside him. An Unggoy-a cowardly thing-poked its head out of the shadows, bulbous eyes gleaming. Hirf vanquished that gleam for ever by planting a few shots between its eyes.**

**He continued to reminisce. Being the only one of his brothers to learn the craft of war, the others fading into obscurity. All ties to his parents and immediate family cut, his only home the academy, with its fighting pits and sparring arenas. Meeting his mentor, still only a youth-a stern man, yes, not one to be crossed; when he was sent flying by a blow after a muttered derision.**

**But he'd worked hard at it. He'd suffered the harsh words, the blows, all the things that accompanied the life of a Sangheili fighter. Learning every lesson, facing every challenge and wrangling with it until he was victorious. Becoming more, in and of himself.**

**A Brute roared its fury, darting out of the shadows. Once again, Hirf snapped out of it. He tried to track its movements, but it was too fast, and he was too weak. His arms felt like lumps of clay. His eyes grew leaden. He so very wanted to sleep.**

**It came out of nowhere-bulling him to the floor, hands tearing at his flesh. All of a sudden, he remembered the sword in his hand. Even in his weakened state, it did its work. The alien sagged, dying slowly from a head injury. Hirf grunted his satisfaction, and tried to stand up. He felt like he was carrying an iceberg on his shoulders. Memories flooded through him again.**

_**-sparring with his closest friend, Vrik, in the courtyards of Kalok'-**_

_**-skipping stones across a pond-**_

_**-laughter-**_

**He couldn't stand under his own volition any more. He rested his back against the cool metal of the reactor column. All around him, the noises and lights were intensifying. But they were as nothing to the storm of memories.**

_**-meeting Laruma, the love of his life-his heart stolen by those soft brown eyes-**_

_**-taking her as his mate; the ceremony taking place on the shores of Tal'buy Lake. Happiness shuddering through him-**_

**The luminous numbers of the charges glowed bright: 2:12.**

_**-his training culminating in Virtue's Advent-that day where new Sangheili recruits received their official weapons and armour-**_

_**-waving his sword exultantly in the air-**_

**1:37**

_**-his sword-**_

**0:21**

_**-sword-**_

**Clarity arrived, at the end. With a sudden surge of energy, he lifted his sword into the air triumphantly.**

_**So it ends. To my ancestors paradise, I now go.**_

**Detonation.**

**It began with a tremendous rumbling. It filled the air and the ground. Dozens of miniature bangs echoed through the dirt. All eyes turned to the reactor, first with curiosity, then concern. They didn't have time to get to panic.**

**There was a thunderous explosion. Whole hillsides collapsed, and the metallic plating of the reactor Penitence Company had been assigned to groaned and buckled. Metal bolts snapped and pinged. The piping was shaking itself apart. Engineering teams were immediately dispatched, but by then it was too late.**

**The reactor broke apart, consumed by a violet sphere of energy that increased in size and width, consuming everything in its path. As soon as it reached the next reactor, it doubled in size and continued to expand. The noise was terrible. The Covenant troops were helpless before this onslaught. Standing slack-jawed at their impending doom, they were incinerated in moments. Those that tried to run fared no better. Banshees and dropships failed to out-distance it, swallowed up. Flesh, metal, wood-all of it was devoured by the apocalyptic sphere of furious energy. The plasma batteries and digging equipment only fueled the flames.**

**It took all of three minutes. By that time, the basin had become an ashy wasteland. Steam rose from the piles of charred and twisted bone and metal that had marked concentrations of Covenant troops. The muster had been obliterated. Tendrils of plasma still sparked fitfully at the very edges of the basin.**

**Hirf's spirit rose over the scene, his heart filled with gladness. A mighty blow had been struck against the enemy. He only hoped that his brothers would continue to succeed in such a manner.**

**He turned, and saw his ancestors roaring their welcome.**

**Mission Clock: 1811**

**Gerun was privy to the explosion as well, distant though he was. The sky became a blinding white, and static electricity washed across his armour. A muffled boom was heard. The holographic controls flickered. Behind him, the Choppers shuddered as their ballistic shielding failed completely.**

**But, caught up in the frantic chase, he paid it little heed.**

**Try as he might, Gerun could not shake his pursuers. The Jiralhanae followed him with dogged determination, no doubt wanting to exact a vicious revenge. The nature of their surroundings prevented Dasa from getting a clear shot. The same could not be said for the Choppers. Built to handle jagged terrain, the vehicles toothed wheels ate up the ground at a frightening pace.**

**Yet another spike rattled past, blowing a large divot in the ground. One Chopper had pulled ahead of the rest, and was harassing them relentlessly. It was only a matter of time before the driver got lucky. He racked his brains trying to think of a solution. He scanned the terrain.**

**The walls of the canyon had risen somewhat, but ahead there was a ragged gap on the left. It descended deep, and ended in what used to be a rock pool. Above it was a drop-off. Anyone who fell would be smashed on the rocks below. It was a long shot, but it would get this nagging Brute off their tail. "Hold on, brothers!"**

**Before they could ask what he was doing, Gerun halved their speed and turned sharply to the right. And kept going. The Prowler began to rotate on the spot. Metal screeched and the world became a blur.**

**The Chopper's pilot was completely taken by surprise, and didn't have time to adjust its speed. Roaring past, the Brute fought desperately to save himself, but it was too late. He tumbled down the slope with a howl. Three seconds later, a crunch was heard. Smoke drifted.**

**Gerun powered up the engines and they continued their flight. Dasa swiveled to face him and laughed shakily. "By the Arbiter's blade, Gerun, but you can be singularly insane sometimes." Gerun grunted vaguely.**

**This maneuver had given the other four Choppers time to catch up, and they rained fire upon the lone Prowler. A spike embedded itself in one of the sleds, narrowly missing one of the sappers. More filaments of shrapnel cascaded down, making every surface dangerous. Cursing, Gerun turned the corner that lay ahead. The resulting canyon was much wider, but began to slope up at the end. It lay far ahead, however. Massive boulders-shaped like termite nests-dotted the landscape.**

**These proved to be lethal. Dasa blasted at one Chopper pulling ahead on the left, forcing the driver to move out of the plasma cannon's range. Seeing a rock ahead, the Brute attempted to plow through it. The rock, having weathered countless decades of sun and wind, held firm. The driver flew out of his seat and smacked into the boulder with a nasty **_**sprack. **_

**Their attackers then tried a new tack. Racing ahead with their boosters, they came alongside the Prowler and closed in on both sides. The sound of their engines was deafening. The sappers tried firing on them-at point-blank range it was impossible not to-but their shots did little damage. The drivers were out of their range.**

**Gerun was mystified. What was the purpose of this? He looked ahead, and his mouth turned dry. A truly massive rock was directly in front of them, and they were headed straight for it. He tried to pull left, but the bulkier Chopper boxed him in. Gerun could see the driver's malicious grin, anticipating what was to come. Dasa sent a stream of plasma bolts into the hull of one Chopper, but the vehicle was sturdy, and held firm. Soon, it wouldn't have to worry about the damage. They would be held in this position until they met the rock.**

"**Gerun!"**

**He looked up, and saw his comrade standing up in the turret cavity, preparing to step out of it. "What folly is this?" he demanded. **_**The heat of this planet has inflamed Dasa. He will see a healer by the end of this, if I have to force him at sword point.**_

"**Just hold the Prowler steady!" Dasa tensed, and removed his last leg from the cavity. He now stood perched on the bonnet. Taking a deep breath, he leapt.**

**Onto the left Chopper's hull.**

**Gerun would later describe it to his fellows, but what he saw was nothing like what Dasa felt. Time seemed to slow, and the pair of vehicles moved in perfect unison. The boom of the various engines reduced to a drone. With catlike grace and confidence, Dasa alighted between the Chopper's grinding wheels. **

**Perched above the driver's head, Dasa gripped the metal sides tightly. Below him, the gears spun mercilessly. **_**Best not to think of what one could lose down there. **_**Putting one hand to his belt, he drew his spiker. The driver swerved in an attempt to dislodge Dasa, but the Elite was quicker. An entire clip pummeled him in the face, and the driver sagged off his seat. Before the vehicle could slow, Dasa leapt again and flawlessly landed on the Prowler. It had all happened in the space of ten seconds.**

**Dumbstruck, Gerun watched him re-man the turret. This would surely be the defining moment of Dasa's battle poem. Perhaps it would even merit him a position in the communal tapestry Deeds Awake, which presided over a large museum detailing the history of Sangheilios. The Virot' family was not a prolific one, but it was not without its heroes. Pride and admiration surged through him for his friend.**

**Then the Chopper on the right struck him, and he refocused. Enraged by the foiling of the plan, the second Brute sought vengeance. A projectile grazed Dasa's shoulder, spilling purple blood all over his back. He could no longer operate the turret properly. Like an aggressive carnivore, it dogged them without quarter. Gerun could feel the heat coming off its engine, it was that close. Something had to be done.**

**He had a flash of inspiration. He addressed one of the sappers, "Warrior! Do you still have some of that webbing?"**

"**I do, "affirmed the puzzled Elite. "But why-"**

"**Give it to me, and be quick about it!" The Chopper was bearing down on them like a gorgon from the Seven Hells. Hurriedly, the Elite tossed a square grey package to Gerun. It landed on his lap. Taking one hand off the controls, he gripped it in one hand, and pressed the flat, yellow button in the centre of it. Just as an ominous beeping began, he threw it over his shoulder**

**The flanges of white webbing erupted from the package, just as it became firmly lodged inside the Chopper's gears. Clogging its constant movement, the ceaseless **_**whirr**_** of the Chopper became a **_**snark. **_**Massive spiked wheels flew out from the inner casing, and the vehicle slowly fell apart.**

**There was but one Chopper now, and it had learned from the fates of its fellows. It followed cautiously, too far to be struck by turret or anything else. Gerun snatched a look behind him, and saw the driver's massive form hunched behind the controls, encased in familiar-looking black armour. The blade over its shoulder confirmed it. **_**Not this animal again! **_

**They begun to ascend the slope. At its crest, a natural arch stretched between two hilltops. Gerun dismissed this minor detail and focused on climbing the slope. It was quite steep. Just then, a wavering drone filled the air, and a Phantom-coated with green alloy-glided above their heads, going west. It belonged to their comrades!**

**But Gerun had grown careless, and Furius took advantage of this. He unleashed a fusillade of orange spikes. One cracked his seating and jabbed into his back, and three more drilled into the Prowler's carapace. The craft groaned, and began to slow. "No!" Gerun yelled, slamming a hand on the controls. They couldn't fall! Not after all this!**

**Furius had seen the results, and turned his Chopper around, getting ready for another pass. He howled triumphantly, the noise bouncing off the canyon walls.**

**Just as they reached the top of the slope, the engine cut out and the Prowler shut down. It was now no more useful than a piece of bark. Seething, Gerun dismounted and bade the others to do the same. "Keep an eye on him, "he ordered, and went to see what lay ahead.**

**There was another slope-traveling down, obviously. At its bottom was another relic of times past-a perished waterfall. The cliff from whence it came was around thirty meta-units high. Where once water had collected, there was a dry gulch, quite deep.**

**His eyes returned to the arch. With its pitted and cracked surface, it was not very strong. Perhaps it would prove useful after all. But no, that would be lunacy…**

**This entire day has been nothing but lunacy, fool. Gerun went back to the others. "Sappers to me, "he commanded. "Dasa, remain on guard." His subordinate stood watching the Chopper, weapon out. As he did so, Gerun quietly explained his plan to the other Elites. After a time, they nodded and reached into their packs, pulling out strands of rope, webbing and explosives. The pair headed for the canyon walls.**

**Dasa was curious. "What do you plan, brother?"**

**Gerun smiled grimly. "That Brute could defeat any number of our fighters with strength alone. No, to kill this champion, we must use overwhelming force. That is what I plan." He drew his needler, the long violet quills glistening in the sunlight. "Dasa, you will draw his attention. Bring him ever closer to the summit. The sappers are preparing the final phase of the plan." Behind him, the commandos scaled the canyon's walls, heading for the arch. However, that was not all they would do.**

"**But what of you?" Dasa inquired, worry creeping into his voice.**

**Gerun leapt atop the Prowler, his stance defiant. "I will be the bait."**

**Furius, champion of the Semk clan and the mailed fist of the Alpha Packs, pulled his Chopper to a halt, coming to rest facing the slope. The slippery Sangheili had evaded his brothers and killed them with outlandish tricks, but not him. Not Furius. He'd tear them limb from limb. The Brute salivated at the thought.**

**Even Furius has to admit, they were exceptionally cunning, even by Sangheili standards. Somehow, they had obliterated the entire muster. No matter. The fates of his brothers concerned him little-just his own personal glory. A single-minded view, perhaps, but one that kept him focused.**

**Their Prowler had been sufficiently damaged, and they had no heavy weapons-there was no reason to wait and allow them more time. Grinning in anticipation, he gunned the throttle and rocketed up the hill. As he did so, things came into view.**

**Slightly ahead, there was a lone Sangheili, crouched behind rocks. He opened fire with a plasma rifle. Furius laughed-did the feeble thing think to wound him with such toys?**

**His laughter died when a plasma grenade followed the barrage. It went off and sent his Chopper tumbling down the slope, though not wrecked. Shudders of static danced through his armour, and his smugness was replaced by frothing rage. The audacity! Furius would make that one bleed slowly for such an insult.**

**As he righted his vehicle, he saw the Elite running back up the slope. Strange-usually these infidels were fanatic about honour and glory. Furius dismissed it out of hand and went at it again, this time unmolested. Nothing would stop him now.**

**There was the hilltop, and sitting in full view was the Prowler-with an Elite perched on top. He squinted-this was the same one he had tried to kill at the muster! The worm had evaded him before, but now it was time to finish the deed. He patted the sword on his back.**

**The other Elite he would deal with later. For now, a target standing in full view was too good an opportunity to pass up. He would not fire-instead he would ram it. It was more violent, and Furius revelled in violence. His vehicle closed the distance.**

**Gerun, meanwhile, stood impassively, watching Furius come closer. He would have to wait until the last second for this to work. If it did not work…**

**He stood firm, and roared a Sangheili war-cry. One that his ancestors would have bellowed, in their unification wars. Primal strength flowed through him. He raised his needler and fired. Though it was like attacking a whale with a knife, he kept doing it.**

**The Brute was not far now. He clicked his COM. "Sappers, are the charges ready**_**?"**_

"**Ready and waiting, Gerun."**

"**Excellent." Eventually he sheathed the firearm and stood ready, hands held out to the sides. He would have to be quick.**

**The Chopper prepared to ram him, its boosters charging-**

**Gerun dived off the Prowler. Furius' momentum was too great, and he plowed through the Prowler like it was butter. A nanosecond before he did, one of the sappers pressed a button, and several things happened.**

**The camouflaged mines attached to the Prowler went off, blowing the support vehicle into smithereens. Gerun was thrown by the blast, and thudded somewhere down the slope. Dasa wanted to rush to his side, but couldn't. Not yet. As the bewildered Brute raced down the slope, he roared, "Set off the charges now!"**

**The last of the explosives-spread all over the cracked arch-detonated. Though the blast itself was mighty, it was as nothing compared to the cascade of rubble and shale that followed. It flooded down the narrow slope like water, sending up a massive dust cloud. Furius was trapped at the bottom of the gulch. When the rumbling had finally stopped, Dasa cautiously investigated.**

**A tomb's worth of rock was now sitting where the gulch had been. Even if Furius had survived, he wouldn't be escaping any time soon. Satisfied, he turned back.**

**The sappers were supporting Gerun, who was wounded-badly. His features were pale. Dasa saw evidence of internal bleeding, broken limbs and worse. As his leader coughed violently, one of the sappers informed Dasa, "He has a punctured lung. That will need to be treated."**

**Dasa nodded. "Begin broadcasting on your COMs. There are dropships nearby-we must signal them. Be about it." They left Gerun propped up on a rock. Dasa knelt beside his brother and handed the energy sword back to him. "Your plan worked perfectly. The beast is no more. You are to be congratulated."**

**Gerun spat blood. "Then why do I feel so terrible?"**

**It was not long before they were finally found and rescued. A Phantom hovered over them, engaging its gravity lift. Two Elites floated to the ground, dressed in burnished red armour. They regarded the battered foursome with interest. "Well met. I am Majordomo Elbu. Come aboard, warriors-you need rest. We will prepare medical treatment for you, brother." This last comment was to Gerun, who nodded thanks.**

"**We have also found other members of the Xonnel Legion, "the Elite continued. "They claim to be under the command of Hirf Kalok'. Is he present?"**

**They looked at each other and sighed. "No, "Gerun finally said. "He fell. But before doing so, he struck a great blow against the enemy. His memory should be honored."**

"**Then so it shall."**

**The Phantom climbed into the sky, and flew north, where more troubles awaited.**

**As the surrounding plains grew darker, and the sun slowly sank towards the horizon, a hand burst through the pile of rubble that lay in a gulch. It flexed, and began moving away more rocks. **

**When the task was finished, a very dirty and vengeful Brute arose from the tomb, its armour dented all over. The blade it was carrying had snapped in two. Its firearm-known by the Jiralhanae as a Mangler-was still functioning. It snorted, and removed its helmet to get some fresh air.**

**The Sangheili would pay dearly for this. Presuming him dead had been their first mistake. He did not know when he would find them, or where, but he would.**

**Furius straightened up, and began walking north, where he knew more of his kind were located.**

_**One hour earlier**_

**Horatio finished resealing the scope on his sniper rifle and clamped it onto the barrel. He peered through it, and found it was back to normal. A piece of rock had scratched the insides, and he'd needed to make repairs. Perched on a rocky precipice, he gazed downward, looking at a sulphur-filled canyon. He couldn't see anything, so he returned his attention to the surrounding forest of thin grey trees.**

**The scattered marines and ODSTs in the area had rallied here, cut off from the majority of the human forces. Though a few fighter craft had passed overhead, they had not noticed them. So here they were, around one hundred and fifty men, with few resources and no support. Someone up there doesn't like me, that's for sure.**

**Scouts had been sent out, to get a sense of the surrounding terrain. They would be back soon. Horatio looked behind him, taking a look at his-for the time being-squad. Dean was there, and the marine they'd rescued, whose name turned out to be Chad. Two others, whom he had yet to meet, waited as well. A sea of olive green and black, gathered in this clearing.**

**Sudden shouts-the scouts had returned, and all eyes turned in their direction. Squad sergeants called for silence as a swarthy-looking man of about fifty years stepped onto a rock, using it as a podium. "Alright, listen up marines, "he called. Silence fell-this man was clearly important. Horatio strained to listen.**

"**For those of you who don't know, I'm Master Sergeant Massad, and I pretty much pass for rank around here. I won't mince words-here's how we stand. There are no other marine groups within three miles, so it seems we're on our own. Our COMs are no good and we have no air support or armour. So, we'll have to improvise."**

"**In fact, we have an opportunity to do some serious damage. I've just received intel from our scouts that there is a Covenant dig site not far from here. Our thermal scanners have confirmed the presence of plasma drills. Not only that-they've got something worse." He paused dramatically. "A Scarab."**

**A hush of fear went through the huddle of marines, and in the silence a few muttered expletives were heard. They'd seen what the assault platforms, hulking and unstoppable, tear their way through the strongest armour and turn formations to sighing ghosts on the wind. As for the stories, told by those who hadn't encountered one, they weren't so far from the reality.**

**Sensing fear, Massad held up his hands. "Calm down, ladies. They're not invincible. Now, any of you who have to change your pants, do so." A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd. "Anyway, it's not quite finished. They've yet to install the leg motors, which means it won't be hunting us down anytime soon. Too busy digging around for God knows what. Only a light garrison, too. Meaning I've seen fit to send a strike team."**

**The marines looked amongst themselves. Massad continued. "It'll be around thirty, forty men. I'll handpick it myself. Rest of us will stay here and await further developments. Alright, line up in squads and let's do this." The company scrambled into a loose chain. Massad began walking down it slowly, picking out soldiers. Most of them seemed quite peeved about it.**

**Eventually, he got to Horatio's squad. The master sergeant's dark eyes appraised his squad. "State your name, soldier."**

**Horatio saluted. "Private Horatio Zerba, sir!"**

**Massad nodded. "Zerba. This your squad?"**

"**For the time being, sir. I was separated. I'm part of Sergeant Kyle's squad."**

**Massad grinned unexpectedly, pleased. "Kyle! The old bastard's still going strong then, eh?"**

**Horatio was surprised. "You know him?"**

**Massad waved a hand. "Back on New Constantinople, years ago. Anyway. You a marksman? I'm coming up short and I could use a man watching my back."**

"**Affirmative, sir. But I haven't been one for-"**

**Massad clapped him on the shoulder. "Great! You're in!" Before Horatio could protest, the man moved on to question other soldiers. He had no choice but to steam quietly. He'd been there, in New Mombassa, and the constant fighting retreat against the Scarab stood out in his mind. Fatalistically, he concluded that this time wouldn't be much better.**

**When the team had been assembled, Horatio saw that Dean had been selected as well. Nodding ruefully, he said, "Well, this trip is a bust. What'd you do to get in?"**

**Dean scowled. "No particular reason. Just wants a lot of people around to do the dying, I suspect." He spat in the dirt.**

**The group gathered around Massad, who carried an MA5K carbine in his brawny hands. "OK, **_**xaskares**_**, "he said, using the Arabic word for soldier. "We've got about two klicks to cover. Move out, and be quick about it." The soldiers-a mix of infantry, marksman, combat engineers and other leathernecks-moved quietly through the grey forest. The trees loomed like silent sentinels. Ash and sand pattered underfoot. Their olive and grey armour let them blend into the terrain with ease. The sounds of the marines they'd left behind faded away.**

**The journey passed without incident. Spread out in a rough line, the marines got closer and closer to the dig site. After a time, they began to hear a roaring sound, punctuated with repetitive thumping. They must be close. There was a muffled cough, and everyone cocked their guns.**

**The radio crackled. **_**"All personnel, this is Squad Three**_**,**_** "**_**a calm voice murmured. **_**"Found some Jackal sentries, but they're taken care of."**_

"_**Some over here, too, "**_**a marine reported. **_**"Neutralised."**_

**Horatio stumbled over a protruding rock, and fell down. Just as he was about to get up, he saw light reflect off his dog tags. Grateful for the helmet, he looked right-with his eyes. A Grunt sentry was hidden in a small hollow behind a rock slab, curled into a tight ball. Apart from the light glancing off his cone tip, he was doing an extremely good job of lying in wait. If they passed by, he would sound the alarm.**

**Dean bent down to give him a hand, and Horatio made some quick hand signals. **_**Three o'clock-don't look directly.**_

**His fellow marine passed a casual look over the hiding spot, and returned, **_**Kill him?**_

_**No**_**,**__**Horatio signed back. **_**Just follow my lead. **_**He walked to a spot near the Grunt, and unscrewed his canteen. He closed his eyes and let the water trickle down his throat with a sigh of pleasure. Seeing he was alone, the Grunt's hands went to its plasma pistol, and it raised the weapon.**

**Suddenly a hand reached out and dragged it forward. Dean stepped out from behind the tree and held the squirming alien at arm's length. "Gotcha, ya little runt, "he said. Pressing a knife to the alien's throat, he pushed it forward into a walk.**

**Massad had been informed, and he surveyed their prisoner with disgust. A circle of marines watched. "A Grunt, huh? The little bastard will crack in five seconds flat, just watch." He bent down and jabbed it with its pistol. "Right then. You're gonna answer my questions to the letter. Any attitude, and I'll put a bullet through your ugly face. Clear?"**

**The Grunt, terrified, nodded jerkily. Massad grinned with satisfaction. "Good. First, what are you and your friends digging for?"**

**The Grunt's speech in English was halting. "Brute masters order it so. They say they need materials for war. They deep underground. Must use drills."**

**Massad looked at him suspiciously. "Is that all you're doing? Speak!"**

**The Grunt's eyes became frantic. He was evidently torn between self-preservation and the danger of divulging any information. Massad pulled the slide on his pistol, and e stammered out, "Brutes think relics may be in planet. But they deep also. They keep it secret. Only top warriors and leaders know-"**

**Horatio snorted, unable to contain himself. "Then how is it a scrub like you knows about it?"**

**The diminutive alien shrugged. "Words pass through. We Unggoy hear. Not as stupid as they think. But still, secret."**

**Massad scratched his bristly black beard. "Do the Brutes have any idea of what could be on the planet?"**

**The Grunt shook his head. "That we not know. We know the Brute masters have found one, maybe two nodes. But they silent. Nothing comes from them, they find nothing. But they think maybe they have better chance if-"**

**It promptly shut up. Massad narrowed his eyes ferociously. "If? Don't give me the silent treatment, you little lakeet**_**. **_**Keep talking, or you'll know what will happen." He dug the barrel into the Grunt's forehead.**

"**They think better chance if…" The alien quailed, foul-smelling sweat soaking it. "If…."**

"**If what!"**

"**If…they eat you."**

**Massad blinked in consternation. It was obviously not what he had been expecting. "If they eat us? What the hell does that mean?"**

**But his surprise had caused him to loosen his grip, and the Grunt took its chance. Bounding forward, it seized the pistol and pointed it at its head, eyes filled with madness. A shot rang out, and the Grunt dropped like a rock. Massad swore, and kicked it in frustration. "Fuck! Didn't think he had it in him. Logan, pull him out of the way and cover him up. Wouldn't do to have him discovered." He dusted himself off, and the marines kept going.**

**Dean nudged Horatio. "These Covenant are getting more crazy by the day. Eat us? That'll be the day." He laughed scornfully.**

**Horatio wished he could share Dean's optimism. He had a foreboding feeling that things had become much more sinister than before.**

"**Take a look at that."**

**Massad, lying on a rock ledge, jabbed a finger at the Covenant dig site. The rest of the group did the same, except for those still in the trees. The place was situated in a depression, which, judging by the blackened scorches, was not natural. It extended around fifteen metres into the ground. Off to one side, there was a haphazard collection of dwellings-methane pits and the muddy-brown cloth tents of the Brutes. A fence surrounded it. This was only lightly guarded, however. Large smelting pools were tended to by Engineers, their gas-bladders keeping them aloft. Large iron barrels containing molten elements were shipped to squat, brick-like structures, for various purposes. Bands of Grunts and Jackals roved here and there, attended by the odd Brute. Two or three Choppers zoomed around, patrolling.**

**But this was all dwarfed by the Scarab assault platform, its back to the cliff wall. Even from here, it was astonishingly huge, like a purple juggernaught. The main cannon glinted green, like a snake's eye. Horatio swallowed audibly. They couldn't go near that thing without being roasted.**

**It wasn't quite finished, though. Its front legs had yet to be plated with purple alloy, and were just metal struts. Scaffolding surrounded these. The anti-air turret was just a plasma core with wires sprouting underneath it. A small dot-an Engineer-floated over to it and began attaching something.**

**Massad exhaled noisily. "Well, see it for yourself boys. They've got around seventy, eighty men, and a few vehicles too. And of course, the Scarab. Given our numbers, it's gonna be a tough nut to crack. But don't worry your dopey heads about it-I've got a plan."**

**Massad gesticulated as he spoke. "We'll divide into two teams-Red and Blue. Red Team will be responsible for keeping those on the ground busy. Blue Team will push through and board the Scarab."**

"**What?" a marine asked in disbelief. "I thought we were gonna blow it up or something-"**

**Massad glared at him. "I'm allowed to change my mind, private. Now get back in line and listen." As the chagrined marine stepped backwards, Massad continued.**

"**Now, I can't imagine that any of you know how to pilot a Scarab. Until we can figure that out, we'll just use the main gun." He chuckled viciously. "We'll light those Covenant suckers up like a bonfire." A few of the marines cheered.**

"**I'll lead Blue Team. Sergeant Caputo, you'll have command of Red Team." A stocky woman with cropped red hair nodded slightly. "Any and all marines who've had experience with Scarabs will be in my team. Now, split up." With a sigh of resignation, Horatio pushed himself off a rock and went to stand with Massad. Some others did as well, Dean among them. Soon, two groups of around twenty men stood apart.**

**Massad nodded with satisfaction. "Good, good. Caputo, take your lot around to the Covenant camp and start there. Let's go, men." **

"**Hoo-rah!" they said as one. While Red Team moved off, using the forest for cover, Blue Team started down the slope, keeping low.**

**Rocks clattered as Blue Team moved slowly down the slope. Jagged rocks poked out of the hard ground, providing ideal cover. There was no way of telling if the Covenant had placed remote sensors, but Horatio doubted they were as dumb as that. **

**They had gone maybe thirty metres when Massad called a halt, hand raised with thumb pressed against the palm. Nestled behind rocks, they were now fairly close to what passed for the picket lines. A purple barricade, with Shade turrets to either side. The Covenant had been foiled by the obvious-there was too much ground to cover and they'd had to make do with a minimal solution. Easy pickings.**

"**OK, marines, steady now**_**, "**_**Massad's voice whispered over the COM. "We wait for Red Team to initiate the attack, then we move up. Snipers, put everything you have on the turrets. Rocket jockeys, wait until we get closer-those Choppers move fast."**

**Horatio breathed deeply, and pressed the butt of his sniper rifle against his shoulder. Peeking out from a space between two rocks, he sighted the Grunt atop one turret and steadied. He waited for the signal.**

**It was moments like this he hated-from basic training, all the way to here. The attack didn't seem so bad, in comparison to the wait. The mind wandered-got distracted. Something one couldn't afford in combat. The anticipation was palpable, a force filling the air. Some marines were equally discomfited. Others grinned, fingers waiting to squeeze triggers. **_**We've got all types in a war, don't we just-**_

**There was an explosion, and Horatio saw bodies flying through the air in the Covenant camp. The staccato crack of rifle fire reached his ears. **_**"Commence attack! I repeat, commence attack!"**_

**Horatio fired, the sound magnified by the canyon walls. Several more shots followed from fellow snipers, and the Grunt fell, riddled with bullets. The other swiveled and fired, but a grenade thrown by Massad blew him to hell. "Forward, marines!" he barked. Together, they charged the barricade, leaping over it.**

**Horatio's suspicions were confirmed-once they passed the barricade, an alarm began to sound. Plasma emitters began to flash rapidly. Groups of Covenant began to mass, one headed in their direction. Horatio shouldered the rifle and fired, sending a Jackal spinning. More marines opened fire, and their enemies bit the dirt. **

**One Brute made it through, and fired a volley of spikes, dropping two marines where they stood. Massad fired a concerted burst, and the Brute flopped down dead. They were about to celebrate this victory when a Chopper roared past, guns firing. One marine didn't jump out of the way and was mulched. Horatio winced at the sight.**

"**Orville! Take him out!" Massad yelled. A burly marine pulled the M41 SSR MAV/AW launcher off his back, and settled it on his shoulder. Just as the attack vehicle pulled about for another pass, the warhead streaked past and blew it in half. "Hell yeah!" a marine cried. "Way to shoot!"**

**From what they could see, Red Team were pressing hard. A tent went up in a crackling sheet of flame, and screaming Grunts ran for their lives. Engineers, scared by the gunfire and mayhem, cowered behind rocks. The few Brutes tried to marshal their subordinates, but concerted sniper fire took them down before they could organise resistance. **_**I don't like this…it seems way too easy. **_**He was reloading his rifle, when a shadow passed overhead.**

**His heart sank as once again, his suspicions were confirmed. Two Phantom dropships hovered above the scene, sending the marines scattering with bursts from their plasma cannons. The side doors opened, and Brute troopers bailed out. Massad cursed. "Take cover, damnit! Take cover!"**

**Blue Team hunkered down behind rocks as best they could, while the newly arrived Brutes formed a phalanx, pouring fire onto them. Despite their best efforts, they were trapped. Horatio swore as a round missed his face by inches and fired again. Once again, things had gone to shit.**

**Sergeant Caputo had served thirteen years in the Corps, and had handled a variety of missions. Throughout she had developed a no-nonsense attitude that worked well in combat situations. This attack was no different from the others, and she intended to handle it the same way.**

**The camp was largely occupied by Grunts and Jackals, the Brute overseers at work elsewhere. Most were sleeping, catching whatever rest they could. The Brutes wouldn't be, though. Caputo found one of her rocket jockeys, and had him target one of the tents. She signaled for the others to move in on her command.**

**As soon as the rocket detonated, spraying the material with dark blood, Red Team moved in. The ODSTs in her group were the most methodical, tossing grenades into the pits and into the tents before opening fire. The unwitting Grunts had only a few seconds before they went up in the blast. The Brutes blundered out of their tents, and got pummeled by bullets. The marines exchanged high-fives as their enemy wilted before them. "Burn what's left!" Caputo ordered. "Don't leave anything for them to salvage." Leading by example, she reached down, tugged an incendiary grenade off a Brute's corpse, and tossed it at a tent, setting it to light.**

**Mayhem reigned in the camp. Security groups of Grunts and Jackals tried to force their way in to provide assistance, but the ODSTs trained extensively for counter intrusion tactics. Six were sent to secure the main gate, and a reaction force of five was standing by in case of emergency. Marines roamed the camp unopposed, searching for survivors. Evidently they hadn't been suspecting an attack. **_**Shows what those ugly bastards know, hey?**_

**She was about to pull her helmet off when she heard a thrumming noise, and looked up with dread, to see a Phantom closing in. "Dropship! Get down, get your heads down!"**

**The marines in the camp scrabbled to find cover as the blue-purple craft loomed over them, discharging plasma from its fore cannon. Grunts manned the side turrets, tracking any movement. Another floated further off, dropping Brutes to the ground. Blue Team was in some serious trouble, but they had their own problems. She braced herself, waiting for the rain of alien soldiers to begin.**

**But nothing came. After one last barrage, the Phantom's engines flared, and it raced off into the sky. Its counterpart did the same. Caputo was nonplussed. Had the Covenant decided to ignore them? Surely not. Cowardice or no, they never just left them to their own devices. **_**I've got a bad feeling about this… **_**She heard a rasp behind her, and turned. Nothing but ash and cloth flapping in the breeze.**

**She started stripping plasma grenades off a dead Grunt, listening to two marines talk. "Man, these Covenant pussies can't take a hint. This took, what, five minutes? I'm telling you, things aren't what they used to be-"**

**Caputo raised her head. "You mean back when you got shot in the ass, Hanson? Don't think I don't remember. Let's see, 2547, on Miridem…"**

**The marine turned red, and his friend shoved him, chortling. "Shot in the ass, Hanson? I think you neglected to tell us that. Wait until the guys hear this-"**

**Without warning, a serrated blade burst through the leatherneck's chest, twisting cruelly and splitting bone. Hanson shouted in horror and backed away. His mouth gaped, trying to form words to express his agony, but before he could, the blade disappeared and he toppled to the ground, blood spreading out from under him.**

**From behind him, a Brute clad in reactive camoflage armour stepped forward. It held a barbed blade in one meaty hand. The optical red light glinted dully against its triangular helmet. It barked an evil laugh, and raised the blade again. **

**Caputo snapped out of her shock, and opened fire on the alien. Grimacing, it backed off, activated its camoflage and hurried off. Hanson gasped, the situation finally sinking in. "Fuck!"**

**Sudden clarity arrived in Caputo's mind. The entire Brute squad had been camouflaged when they left the Phantom. That was why they hadn't been seen. Now, who knew how many of them were infiltrating the camp. Not far off, she heard another shocked scream and scattered gunfire. A guttural roar echoed through the camp.**

**Swearing, Caputo grabbed Hanson by the arm. "Fall back! Goddamnit, we need to get out of here! Now!"**

**A marine screamed as a spiker bolt drilled into his chest, knocking him backwards. Massad, a dressing on one cheek as a result of a plasma bolt, yelled, "Medic!"**

**A corpsman hobbled over, and, after applying some basic anaesthetic, began the process of removing the spike. Massad eyed the wounded marine worriedly. "Is he gonna make it?"**

**The medic shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. Not if we stay here much longer." He returned to his task, and Massad went back to the rocks. The rest of the group crouched here, returning fire.**

**They were in a desperate situation. Despite their best efforts, the Brutes had them well and truly pinned down. Red Team was in their own fight, from what they could see. And sooner or later, the Phantoms would be back with more reinforcements until they would be overwhelmed. Three more marines lay stretched out in a line, their eyes closed. The first to die. **_**Something's gotta be done, damnit.**_

**Massad tossed another grenade over their barricade, and watched it detonate harmlessly against the Brutes' shields. Next to him was that soldier from Kyle's squad, Zerba. He poked the barrel of his rifle over the rocks and fired, sending a Brute spinning. Massad felt a surge of admiration. "Zerba!"**

**The marine looked up and saluted shakily. "Sir?"**

**Massad stared him in the face. "We're fucked if we stay here much longer. Got any ideas? I'm fresh out."**

**Horatio shook his head. "Can't say I do, sir." He fired another shot, which missed and struck a plasma coil near one of the smelting pits. Instantly, an Engineer left its cover and went to fix it. Horatio noticed that its bulbous body was covered in a looping belt of plasma charges. Punishment for a misdeed? There was no way to know. As more Engineers floated over to help, he saw they were similarly garbed. An idea crept into his head.**

**He turned back to Massad. "Sir? Scratch that, I might have an idea. But we'll have to do it fast."**

**He explained his plan to the sergeant, and Massad raised his eyebrows. "Sounds pretty flukey to me. But hell, we haven't got anything else to do." He raised his voice. "Marines! Target that smelting pool!" The entire group, confused, poured fire onto a pool off to their left, damaging the plasma coils and other machinery. Meanwhile, Massad passed orders along to all marksman in the group. Almost immediately, a quartet of Engineers squawked in protest and began leisurely floating over to the damaged pool. Their path would take them directly over the heads of the Brute squad. Massad redirected their gunfire back to the Brutes, and he looked at Horatio, whose rifle was firmly trained on the squid-like aliens. "Zerba…"**

"**Have to maximise, "he replied. Through the scope, the pinkish light of the Engineer flared brightly. The group were passing unnoticed above the Brutes. Massad watched nervously. "Um, Private. If you don't mind!"**

"**Now!" Horatio and several others fired their rifles until they were dry. The shields of the Engineers shimmered brightly with each impact, until they collapsed. Then, one bullet hit the gas-bladder of one. The reaction was instantaneous. An Engineer pitched to earth, and the Brutes realised, too late.**

**There was a blinding explosion of plasma, and pieces of flesh sprayed everywhere, white-hot. The heat was fierce, so much that they had to crouch behind the rocks as the air turned white. When they poked their heads up, there were only three Brutes left, burned beyond recognition and thrashing in pain. "Take them out, "Massad ordered, not a hint of emotion in his voice. They obeyed with relish.**

**The group, now whittled down to nine, ran across the ground, all pretence of stealth forgotten. At hearing screams and roars, Horatio turned in the direction of the Covenant camp. Smoke was rising from it and he could see Brutes moving past the tents. Christ, it looks like a slaughter over there. "Sir, Red Team's in trouble."**

**Massad stopped, and looked. A crease appeared above his eyebrows. "They have their orders. Divert their attention, until we can secure the Scarab."**

"**But-"**

"**Caputo knew the risks!" Massad snapped. "Now get moving, marine." He turned his back and kept moving. Horatio, after casting a last look of frustration and helplessness, did the same.**

**Caputo huddled between a jumble of rocks, shrinking back whenever she saw Brutes go past. Plasma burns covered her right leg, and she felt blood drip from a knife wound on her shoulder. She could not stop shivering.**

**They were all gone, all dead. Taken in by the trap set by the Brutes, her team had been ruthlessly slaughtered. She'd tried to rally her men, but they had been scattered, lulled into a false sense of security. Hanson, the poor bastard-he'd been burnt alive, by one of those incendiary grenades. The Stalkers, the internal police force of the Covenant and deadly assassins, had been methodical. She, by some fluke, had escaped. But for how much longer?**

**Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. She had lost comrades, she had endured terrible defeats, but not a cold massacre delivered with such surgical precision. It was unnatural, and to think about it was to invite despair.**

**What of Blue Team? Why weren't they here to help? Surely they must have seen…**

**The Brutes began howling in triumph, and she closed her eyes. Her mind felt like it was about to shatter.**

**Blue Team gathered beneath the left foreleg of the Scarab. It was hard to keep from looking up at the colossal construct, blotting out the sky. To say they were crouched in its shadow would be an absurd understatement. **

**Built around the leg were a series of purple scaffolding, connected by a series of minature gravity lifts. The platforms were around ten metres wide, allowing for reasonable movement. There was no sign of any Covenant, save for a few Engineers that floated around the Scarab's underbelly.**

**Massad gazed up at the leg, about thirty metres long. "Big, isn't it? Alright, this is the only way up to the Scarab. Expect resistance marines, and don't slip-it's a long way to fall." He laughed, the only one to do so. "I'll go first. Right, soldiers, go go go!"**

**One by one, they stepped into the gravity left. Horatio was towards the back, and he looked upwards again. There looked to be a tangled blot floating in the sky, dark against the sun. Frowning, he took a closer look, but it was gone. Probably just a cloud. He stepped into the lift, and felt the cold rush propel him upwards.**

**The entire team gathered on the first platform, rifles snapped upward, expecting an attack. No figures could be seen on the Scarab's balcony. Apart from a faint humming from its generator, it was quiet. "I don't like this, man, "a marine muttered. "They wouldn't just let us come up."**

"**Cut the chatter, "Massad ordered tersely. "Keep going." Once again, they proceeded into the next grav lift, emerging on the second platform without incident. They were now quite far above the ground. **

**Suddenly a bark was heard, and a Brute, a jump-pack strapped to its back, floated down towards them, firing. A concerted bunch of fire sent him spiralling. Massad exhaled. "There, ya babies. Nothing to worry about now-"**

**An earsplitting screech interrupted him, and they all looked upwards again, to see a swarm of Drones, about thrity in all, bearing down on them.**

"**Fire! Take 'em down!" The team opened up, and a few of the insectile warriors were killed. But the vast majority made it through and slammed into the marines.**

**Horatio shouted in disgust, enveloped by a flurry of wings, feelers and carapace. Laying left and right, he managed to clear a space. Other marines were holding them off, but just barely. One marine was overwhelmed, and two Drones lifted him bodily into the air, cruel pincers tearing into his flesh. They flew up some distance, and then dropped him, screaming, downward. Horatio winced at the splat and renewed his assault.**

**Massad was like an enraged bear, killing Drones in a frenzy. One clung to his chest, hissing maniacally. "Piss off!" the sergeant bellowed, and, seizing its fragile body, tore it in half. Yellow gore sprayed everywhere. He killed two more with a burst from his MA5K.**

**Horatio punched one in the face and turned, to see Dean struggling with a particularly large specimen. Horatio brought his sniper around and shot in through the head, but it tumbled forward, knocking Dean over the edge. "Help!" he shouted, clinging by one hand to the platform. **

"**I'm coming!" Horatio bulled through the press of Drones, and caught Dean's hand just as it slipped. Horatio steadied, as his teammate dangled below. He forced a smile. "This day just keeps getting better and better, hey?"**

**Dean nodded ruefully, then shouted in alarm. "Look out!" A Drone was creeping up behind Horatio, intending to push him over the edge. Horatio strained to pull Dean up, but to no avail. "Goddamnit!"**

**Dean ducked one hand to his belt, and pulled out his pistol. Just as the Drone arrived, he put a bullet in its skull. "Watch yourself, man."**

**The number of insects had dwindled, but there were still plenty left. Every marine sported a series of nasty cuts and gashes. One, clad in red armour, continued to evade Massad, shooting barbs at him. One zipped past his cheek and sliced it open. Massad's temper broke. "Fuck you, you insect sonuvabitch!" Grabbing it in one hand, he lit a plasma grenade, stuffed it inside its snarling mouth and shoved it towards the remainder of the swarm.**

**There was a flash of light, and the Drones were consumed by the explosion. The purple platform was covered with their blood and guts. The last dying screech rang faintly, like a bell. Breathing heavily, Massad rubbed his face, and eyed his team. "Marines! Sound off. We lose anyone?"**

"**One, sir, "a marine reported. "But everyone else-"**

"**Hey! If you don't help us up, you'll have to cross two more names off your list."**

**They all turned, to see Horatio nearly dangling off the edge. Massad hid a smile. "Help those boys up, so we can finish this mission."**

**When Horatio and Dean were rescued, Massad faced the final gravity lift. "Right, you bastards. Let's get moving." He stepped inside, Blue Team behind him.**

**At long last, they stood atop the foredeck of the Scarab. The smelting pools looked like buttons. Massad cast his eyes about, noting the plasma turrets lining the railings. "OK, team. Pair off. I need the power core, the lower deck, the foredeck and the aft deck secured. Hurley, Vedrich, stay here. Everyone else, go."**

**Horatio, Dean in tow, headed for the lower deck. They walked cautiously down the ramp, flashlights on. "I'll go left, "Horatio murmured. Dean nodded assent. As they reached the bottom, they went their separate ways. The blackness of the lower deck closed in on them.**

**The walls were a smooth black, but ahead there was a faint blue glow. Here and there, crates of materials and weapons were stacked. His breathing sounding amplified by the closeted space, he progressed to the end of the deck. Emblazoned on the wall, was a strange design, pulsing a cool blue. Horatio put his hand to it. Nothing happened. Perhaps it was simply ornamental. **

**His radio crackled. **_**"Blue Team, aft deck secured. No hostiles."**_

"_**Ditto for power core. It's operational, but it's missing some parts. The squids probably know how to fix it."**_

"_**Excellent, **_**"came Massad's voice. **_**"Whose on the lower decks? All clear?"**_

**Horatio looked about. It was dim, but there was nothing here. **_**"Affirmative, Blue Team. It's cle-"**_

**A black form rushed out of the darkness and bowled him over. He heard it running for the ramp. Disorientated, he sat up and shook his head, clearing the stars from his vision. Dean came racing around the other side, rifle cocked. "What happened?" he demanded.**

**Horatio stood up. "No idea. Something came out of nowhere and just-"**

**His head snapped around. "Oh crap. **_**Blue Team, watch yourselves! There's still one hostile left and heading up to the upper deck! Most likely a Brute. I repeat, watch yourselves!"**_

**Massad, on the foredeck with three other marines, caught the transmission just before a crazed Brute, covered in red and white paint, came charging up the ramp, holding a long stave of ironwood, sharpened at both ends. They dived out of the way, but Massad was too slow. It crash-tackled him, and they fought.**

**The stave slammed into the plating beside his head, and Massad grabbed it, and smacked the Brute in the side of the head, stunning it. Using his feet, he booted the alien backwards, coming onto his knees at the same time. He went for his pistol, but the Brute came up and wrenched it from his hands, pulling him forward.. The marines tried to get a clear shot, but couldn't.**

**The Brute lunged with its mouth and bit savagely into Massad's shoulder. Roaring in pain, the sergeant grabbed his knife and drove it into the beast's chest. This did little to deter it, but several more stabs with the blade caused it to release its grip. Massad backed off, clutching his bloodied shoulder. "Shoot it!"**

**The marines opened up, marring the alien's flesh with bullet holes. But it was clearly amped up on some sort of drug-it barely registered the impacts and charged forward again, into Massad. This time, they tumbled over the edge, and dangled before the Scarab's main gun. The group ran over to help.**

**Massad was above the Brute, but it clung persistently to his foot, almost dislocating it from the rest of his body. Lashing out with his other foot, he looked down and swallowed. They were at least fifty metres above the ground. The light from the cannon was blinding, and he swayed. "A little help, please, "he called.**

**Horatio and Dean thumped onto the deck, assessing the situation. Spying the Brute's stave, Horatio grabbed it and pushed past the other marines. "Grab onto this!"**

**Without looking, Massad grappled for the wood and found it. "Pull me up!"**

**Together, the remnants of Blue Team heaved, and managed to drag their sergeant onto the deck. Wheezing, Massad stood up shakily and peered over the edge. The Brute wailed mournfully, knowing it was doomed. He turned to Horatio. "Private. Your rifle, please."**

**Horatio acceded, and Massad sighted the Brute through the scope. "Enjoy your flight, bitch." And fired.**

**The bullet struck the alien's hands, dislodging its grip. From there, it plummeted earthward. Peal upon peal of manic screaming echoed, until it ended abruptly, far below.**

**Massad sniffed. "We won't be seeing him again. Here you go, Private." He handed back the sniper rifle. "Now then. Where are the controls for this thing?"**

"**Near the power core, sir." They moved off in a group, until they found a series of holographic switches, buttons and levers, on the curved wall opposite the power core. The sergeant frowned. "Damned if I can read this stuff. Anyone seen this shit before?"**

"**I have, sir." An olive-skinned marine with a pencil mustache moved forward, and tapped a few buttons. A piercing whistle erupted from the console. Nothing happened. Massad was about to say something, when six Engineers floated up to them, chirping softly.**

**The marine scratched his head. "I guess with these buttons, we can tell them what to do, sarge."**

**Massad nodded appreciatively. "Very good. Now, tap in what I say…"**

**After about ten minutes the single-minded aliens had completed their work. Massad clapped his hands and grinned. "Perfect. Those Covenant sons-of-bitches are in for a big surprise."**

**Horatio eyed the targeting data. "Sir, you've targeted the encampment. What about Red Team?"**

**Massad sighed sorrowfully, and passed a hand over his eyes. "They're gone, Private. Take a look for yourself. We've got no choice."**

**Horatio squinted at the encampment, saw the Brutes moving through it, and the corpses of marines. It made him angry. "We can't just destroy it all because-"**

"**That's enough, Private!" Massad snapped. "If anyone's left alive, then this will be a favour to them, rather than what the Brutes will do to them. You know it and I know it." He turned away. Horatio clenched his fists.**

_**Damnit. This isn't right.**_

**Soon, the next flight of troops arrived at the dig site. Forty more shock troppers, clad in red and black armour streamed to the ground. Forming ranks, they fanned out and began searching the area. A group of ten was sent to secure the Scarab. They marched over to the left foreleg and prepared to climb up via the scaffolding.**

**Suddenly it's eye-which until now had been dim-flared to life. A mechanical roaring was heard, and the right leg pitched forward. The Brutes ran for their lives, but were crushed underneath the massive leg. Every other Brute in the valley turned and stared. There was silence.**

**Then a pulsing, glowing ball of plasma began to gather inside the cannon's barrel. Guessing what was about to happen, the Brutes attempted to run. But, like their fellows earlier on, they had no chance. The ball morphed into a stream, a lancing beam of energy which annihilated anything it touched. Deep gashes were created in the landscape from the high-output laser. Brutes were vaporized without a sound. The Phantoms suffered the same fate. The encampment was struck several times, sending up plumes of noxious smoke.**

**Blue Team cheered in triumph as the Covenant forces were utterly destroyed. Massad surveyed it all with satisfaction. "I guess they never counted on running onto the biggest bunch of badasses in the Corps, huh? Now for the big test. Let's see if this thing can move. Everybody hold on." They grabbed onto the railing as Massad headed to the controls. The Engineers all crowded in front of the console, listening as Massad transferred his orders.**

**With a full cadre of Engineers working hard, they'd managed to get the leg motors online. Whether they would work was a different matter.**

**The back right leg slowly raised itself from the ground, and lowered itself again. Massad did the same with the other legs. It was fully operational. He closed his eyes slowly. "OK, squids. Take this thing forward. One step. That's all. Easy does it." **_**Please don't fuck this up.**_

**Tentacles made contact with the holograms, and the entire Scarab lurched forward. The metal juddered beneath his feet. Vibrations ran through the metal. "Stop!"**

**They came to a halt. Massad laughed shakily, patted one of the Engineers on the back and made his way back to the group. "It's all good to go! Before we go, dismount. We'll take one last look around. See if there's anything we can salvage. Drayson, stay here and guard the squids."**

**A few marines had ropes, and by stringing them together, formed a long rappel line. They abseiled down and stood amongst the ruins of the Covenant camp. The ground, still steaming, crunched underfoot. Little mounds of ashes stood where Brutes had stood. A few rocks and boulders had survived the beam, but little else remained to tell the tale. A few marines scavenged weapons and power cells from the rubble.**

**Horatio stood still, gazing sadly at the site. "They might have made it, "he muttered to Dean. "If we hadn't left them."**

**Dean sighed. "Maybe, maybe not. We'll never know-"**

"**Sergeant! We've found something!"**

**Two marines emerged from a jumble of rocks, supporting someone between them. Everyone stared, speechless. It was unbelievable. Massad's rifle slipped from his hands. "Caputo?"**

**It was indeed Caputo, but she barely resembled the fit, earthy woman from before. She had survived the Scarab beam, but had suffered horrific injuries. Her ears had melted, fusing to the side of her head, forming hideous lumps of flesh. The skin on her face was hanging, turned a mottled black. Her right leg had burnt off below the knee. The fingers of her left hand had melted together. Worst of all, however, were her eyes-two wide, staring orbs of white containing a horror so naked you couldn't look. At seeing Massad, her face twisted to form a snarl of hatred. "You!" she shrieked, trying to break free. The marines held her back, but her fury gave her strength and she raced to Massad, trying to beat at his chest. She was restrained again, sobbing and spitting. **

"**You left us to die!" she screamed. "They all died, and you-you-" She clawed at the dirt, trying to expend her rage. A medic injected her with something, and her struggles stilled.**

**Massad had watched all this with silent shock. Now a look of sadness came over his face. "Bring her with us, "he ordered quietly. "Treat her as best you can." He turned and walked back to the Scarab without a word. The marines looked after him, their expressions unreadable.**

**Horatio gazed upon the ruined form of Caputo. A stolid, good marine, who'd been utterly destroyed. Just how many more would suffer the same fate?**

**He sighed, and rubbed his face. **_**I don't know.**_


	13. Chapter 13

*Chapter Twelve

EARTH TIME: 19th of October, 2553

Futility Ridge

Gethrii

Mission Clock: 1730

General Nicolas Bergen, commanding officer of all the UNSC forces on the planet, pulled the Warthog to a stop. He was a bearish man, of German descent, with a bushy brown mustache and a face seamed with scars. The ridge top rose before them, the harsh sun capping it like a golden bauble. Casting a look behind him, to where the rest of the battalion waited, he keyed his radio. _"All scouts, this is General Bergen, are we clear to move up?"_

"_Place is emptier than a banker's heart, General, "_a voice came back. _"Feel free to come up."_

"_Copy that." _He turned to his aide in the passenger seat. "Sound the advance-we're good to go." The man started issuing his own orders, and the large body of troops and vehicles shifted into motion. Scorpion tanks growled forward on their massive treads. Pelican dropships and Hornet attack craft hummed overhead, heading over the ridge. Their own vehicle ascended the elevation, and they surveyed all that lay beyond.

A huge valley sloped downward, eventually rising up again in another ridge opposite them. A patchwork of brown, denuded hills surrounded that ridge. Theirs was relatively smooth, apart from a few rocky outcrops. That wouldn't bode well when the artillery began to rain down. Bergen shook his head, and continued to gaze through a pair of binoculars. Around him, the battalion began to set up shop.

At the very bottom a riverbed wound its way, cutting the valley in half. _Get the exact dimensions on that-it could prove crucial._ It continued out of the area, through more hills. Intel had assured him that the Brutes wouldn't be able to send a large enough force through those gaps, but he would keep an eye on it. He scratched a lengthy scar on one cheek. _Gift of some Brute bastard-now where was that? God, I can't even remember._

The ground of their slope was fairly flat, and ran straight for two hundred metres, until it reached the riverbed. From what he could see, the ground was broken up there-ideal for digging trenches. He detailed a company of marines to begin the work, and noticed a problem. The areas to the left and right of the trench works were completely bare. And they didn't have enough troops to block those sections. Resignedly, he contacted an artillery officer. _"Lieutenant, move half of the mortar teams on either sides of the ridge, in good cover. I want constant bombardment on these sections." _He referenced the relevant areas on the Tacmap._ "I can't have the Covenant pushing forward there. Understood?"_

"_Sir, yes sir, "_came the reply. _"But we have limited ammunition-we won't be able to keep it up forever." _

"_Very well." _After a few more minutes of observation, he put away the binoculars, got out of the Warthog and went to stand with his retinue.

His executive officer, a man named Serrell, saluted. Bergen liked the look of him-one of those men with a can-do attitude, that got the job done. "Major. Good day for a fight."

The wiry man nodded. "A long time in the making, sir." He looked around. "Uninviting sort of place."

Bergen nodded. "Futility Ridge, the map calls it. Sounds about right. Apparently this used to be a basin, carved out by a meteor. It rumpled up the landscape, formed these hills. Then there was a period of intense flooding, and the walls broke. Water came roaring in, and a lake formed. These ridges did the same. But then, the climate changed and it dried up. There was a river, for a while, then that dried up too. Took a while for our geologists to piece together what happened." He hawked, and spat. The taste of grit, inevitably, crept into the mouth. "How long until the Covenant show their ugly faces?"

Serrell consulted a data pad. "Recon pegs it at least one hour. Their lead elements have been sighted."

"How many?"

"Around three battalions. Nearly three thousand men. Plenty of infantry and armor, but limited air support. We hit them early in this campaign." A grin cracked his features. "But there are enough of them to make a scrap, sir."

Bergen sighed. "I knew it. Those damn Wraiths…anyway. What about the Elites?"

Serrell shrugged. "SpecOps warriors have been deployed in a number of areas. We've contacted some of them and set up beacons, but I don't think we'll be getting much help. That being said, sir, reports are coming in that suggest they're throwing some major spanners into the Covenant works."

"What else is new?" He was silent for a few seconds. "I want our field hospital behind the ridge. Nowhere near the fighting."

"Yessir."

A man with the arrowhead crest of an artillery officer approached him and saluted. "General, we've got a problem with the bombardment scheme. The east side is too large to be blanketed completely. The Brutes will find a way past."

Bergen scowled. "Get some demo boys down there and start laying a field. It won't hold them off forever, but it'll teach the bastards to watch their steps. Major Serrell, I want more men assigned to the closest outcrop. If they break through, we're history." They both saluted, and the lieutenant departed. Serrell faced him.

"You don't intend to take the other side." It was a statement, not a question.

Bergen shook his head. "No point. They'd pour down on us like a wave. And it would only weaken us on this side. However, I _will_ leave some surprises for them. They can't have it all their own way." Serrell chuckled appreciatively.

Inwardly, Bergen was apprehensive. The initial plan to swoop in behind the Brutes-what seemed like years ago-had stonewalled. The aliens had proven themselves to be smarter than appearances deceived. Now it would be an old-fashioned head-to-head struggle, soldier to soldier.

By now, the marines had begun to settle in. Prefab buildings were being constructed on the ridge top, complete with a command post and communications centre. Foxholes were dug, with sandbags piled around the edges. Light glinted off the shovels of those marines digging the trenches near the riverbed. Later on, machines would refine those pits. Warthogs roamed around, delivering men and setting up patrols. Scorpion tanks were positioned on every outcrop, with the rest being held in reserve. Groups of men made their way over the riverbed and to the other side, carrying mines, motion sensors and other equipment. Huge mortar launchers were carried by truck-like vehicles and filled with ammunition, ready to rain fire and death on their enemy.

The air sweltered, and the sun, an unforgiving eye in the sky, glared down on these preparations for battle.

Mission Clock: 1730

The marines were completely shocked when they saw the majestic Scarab rise over the trees, colossal legs snapping trees and driving into the earth. Some ran for cover, but then Massad's voice boomed out of the speakers. _"Marines, stand down. It's us. As you can see, we succeeded." _ You could almost hear the smug smile in his voice.

A few minutes later, and Massad-along with Blue Team-descended from the assault platform. The burly sergeant called everyone in, and spoke once more. "The odds are getting better, boys. Now with this Scarab, we can do some real damage. Any new information?"

One sergeant came forward. "Managed to punch through the interference and bounce the signal off some of the satellites in orbit. The main base is only twelve klicks away. Their signature matches the description we got. Easy enough to reach in the Scarab."

"You raise anyone on the COM?" Massad inquired.

"Nope. But we were transmitting clear. The problem must be on their end."

"On their end, "Massad mused. "Famous last words." He stared into space for a few seconds. "Let's assume the base has been taken. So, we're going to get it back." The assortment of marines grinned and made sounds of appreciation. Now that they had a Scarab, anything seemed possible. "There have to be some supplies, not to mention a way of contacting the rest of the battalion. But there's no way we can take all of us on the Scarab. Seventy, eighty max. The rest of you are gonna have to hump it." There was a loud chorus of groans. The master sergeant scowled at them. "No-one said this was gonna be a picnic, so stow it. We'll take on most of the supplies, so those walking won't have it too tough. Now line up and see if you've got the luck to win a cruise."

After he had selected a large portion of the group, they proceeded to board the Scarab via the ropes. Most piled into the lower decks, crowding in the dimly lit compartment. There was some confusion and a few fights broke out. The rest stayed on the upper deck, all holding onto protruding objects for safety. The Engineers, still clustered around the console, were given a wide berth. One brash young private pulled out his pistol upon seeing them, but Massad wrenched it out of his hand. "None of that, son. Or I'll hang you on the main gun as a hood ornament, "he warned.

Lashing the ropes to crates of supplies, they managed to pull them onto the deck. These were stored near the power core, out of the way.

After taking on a gross of troops, the Scarab sluggishly turned, weighed down. As the diminished group of marines left behind began walking, the mechanized craft pushed through the thick of trees, until they began to grow more sparse. The dusty plain lay beyond.

Horatio clung to a railing, to avoid being jolted off the side. His sniper rifle lay on the deck, pointing upwards. For lack of anything else to do, he was cleaning the barrel with a rag. Other marines stood about him, trying to ignore the constant up-down motions of the Scarab.

Though this seemed like a good course of action-indeed, the only course-he couldn't help but be frustrated by a sense that time was running out. Armies were marching, battles were being fought, and here they were cut off from it all. They had only been here a few hours, but it felt like forever. Whereas in a hard-pitched battle, he knew, time flowed like an onrushing river. _The two biggest irregularities of war, and the universe just laughs, _he thought morosely. He reached up to shake some dust out of his matted black hair.

His eyes eventually wandered to the supine body of Caputo, wrapped in a blanket under an awning and packed tightly with biofoam and bandages. They'd given her enough sedative to keep her out for a week. Any self-respecting medical facility would be able to treat her wounds, but the scars inside would take far longer to heal. The screams within would not be silenced in a hurry.

Because of their negligence, good soldiers had died, and another had been driven mad. Horatio vowed that would not happen on this op. No more foolish mistakes.

After fifteen minutes or so, a black lump formed on the horizon. Emblazoned behind it was a ragged cliff. Even from this distance, Horatio could see the upright forms of the gun turrets, designed to shoot down enemy aircraft. They weren't far away now.

"_OK, boys and girls, "_Massad's voice said curtly. _"There's no chance that we'll get close without being seen-assuming there are any Covenant. If not, good. For now, just quiet down and keep your eyes peeled for any hostiles."_

Their chatter faded away, even below decks. Even though the motions of the Scarab created a din, the passengers on board were silent; grim-faced and looking for a target. Marines crowded the rails, weapons ready. All around them, dirt, sand and ash stretched away like an ochre carpet. Ahead was the only change.

Then a few objects detached themselves from some rocks and throttled toward them. Three Choppers, crewed by terrified-looking Brutes, raced along the dirt, autocannons firing. Bolts of metal impacted the Scarab's legs, shearing off metal. Massad replied in earnest, transferring orders to the Engineers. The tentacled aliens had learned their language astonishingly fast, and no longer needed an interpreter.

The main gun shone with incandescent light, and fired a tight shot of plasma, thoroughly obliterating their attackers. A smoking black hole was the only thing left. Marines whooped, and waved their guns in the air.

But there was no time for celebration as more vehicles-a mix of Ghosts and Choppers-appeared in a group, coming away from the base. The element of surprise was gone. A repeated burst of plasma destroyed the frontrunners, leaving mangled metal husks. But they kept coming, firing with all their might. Soon they closed the distance, and rocketed underneath them. _"Damnit, marines, open fire! Man those plasma turrets!"_

Plasma bolts streaked upward, hitting unfortunate marines and sending them screaming to the ground. They tried to retaliate with rockets, but the aliens were wily and traveled faster than could be easily tracked. A few went down, riddled with bullets, but they continued to harass them, like a swarm of angry bees.

Horatio tried to fire his sniper rifle, but the thick of marines prevented him from putting the barrel to his shoulder. He was holding it in one hand when a ball of plasma struck the ODST next to him, blowing a plate-sized hole in his chest. _What the hell, _he thought, and fired.

The white trail of the bullet could be clearly seen as it ricocheted off a rock and buried itself in the bonnet of a Ghost. The engine must have been penetrated, because the vehicle's speed suddenly doubled, the booster engines flaring blue. As the panicking Grunt driver tried to control his mount, it collided with another Ghost, sending them both up in an explosion.

If Horatio could have rubbed his eyes in disbelief, he would have. But, given the situation, he didn't-and made sure his helmet camera recording had been on. _Something to tell the guys about._

Things were getting ugly, however. The Covenant's constant fire meant that the Scarab was taking a real pounding. Plasma vented from the leg joints, and the entire construct shuddered. There were still around eight vehicles harassing them. Suddenly there was a small explosion underneath them, and they staggered. Thankfully, no-one fell off. Horatio pushed his way to the foredeck, where Massad stood.

The master sergeant's face was bright red with frustration as he directed the Scarab's movement. "Bring us pack another three steps!" he yelled into his radio. "I want short bursts, not long beams!" Their main gun swiveled, fired and burnt a Chopper beyond recognition.

Horatio saluted, and spoke in a rush. "Sir. They've hit something vital on the underside. I don't know what it was but it doesn't sound good."

Massad whirled on him. "What?" He spoke into his radio, demanding a status report from the Engineers. After a few seconds, he nodded grimly. "The power core's been hit. Soon we'll have no juice if those crapsacks keep this up. We might have to abandon ship-"

"Wait a minute." Something occurred to Horatio at that point. "That means they'll be concentrating their fire on our underside?"

Massad shrugged. "Suppose so."

Horatio smiled fiercely. "Then let's make them pay. Give these orders to the Engineers, and tell everyone to hold on."

By this time, a jagged tear in the belly of the Scarab had opened up, weeping purple steam and hissing sparks. The aliens had formed a semicircle with their vehicles, and were pouring fire onto the tear. The giant assault platform had stilled its motions, and stood immobile.

Then a voice rang out. _"Greeting, Covenant uglies. I have to say, I don't take kindly to what you're doing. So, here's our rebuttal. Squids, cut all power to the leg motors."_

There was a shudder, and all the running lights on the Scarab's legs went off. What happened next wasn't unexpected, but surprising nonetheless.

The body of the Scarab plunged downward, devoid of the power needed to keep it upright. The last thing the unfortunate aliens saw was the massive hulk of the Scarab coming towards them like a leviathan. Then darkness.

Metal groaned as the legs struggled to keep from buckling. Massad ordered that power be restored, and slowly, the body lifted back up again. "Move us away, "he ordered. "I want to see what's left of them."

When they did move away, the Choppers and Ghosts resembled scrap metal-but flatter. Amid a round of cheering, Massad sighed with relief. "Well, if that's the worst they can throw at us we'll be fine. Keep going, squids."

Their battered construct shifted into motion, advancing towards the base. But it wasn't long before more blips appeared-this time in the sky. Banshees.

"Not a problem, "Massad said whimsically. He keyed his radio again. "_Squids-fire up the anti-aircraft turret."_

Before they'd left the dig site, Massad had taken some time to finish making the AA gun. It wasn't quite complete-it was missing some armour and targeting circuits-but it could fire, and that was all that mattered. It creaked, fluorescent plasma building in the barrel.

"Fire."

Jets of pink energy flew out, racing for the Banshees. Some barrel rolled and avoided them, but most of them were hit by the blasts and spiraled earthward, trailing smoke and flames. One boosted ahead, firing a sphere of green energy. _"_Fuel rod! Take cover!"

The marines on the foredeck fought to get out of the way as the explosive radioactive projectile slammed into the deck plating, scorching it black. Two didn't make it, and were vaporized. "Bastard!" Massad yelled, and fired with his MA5K. Bullets tore into the Banshee's cowling, and just before it could execute a turn, the bullets pierced the metal and went into the pilot's head, killing him instantly. The aircraft ailed, bumped off the main gun and was crushed beneath one leg.

With the help of some rocket jockeys, the last of the Banshees were taken down. Massad holstered his gun and jabbed a finger forward. "Alright, we stay out here any longer and we're dead, "he announced. "So we push hard. _Full power to the leg motors-I want us charging in there like a bull."_

Massad was under no illusions. Their Scarab, for all its power, couldn't handle everything that was thrown at it. Still, they had to try-or end up dead not five hundred paces from the base.

The legs of the Scarab began to shift at a quicker pace. They weren't fast-it was impossible-but they weren't slow either. The deck under the marines feet heaved up and down as their pace increased. The main gun's light faded, as did the running lights. The base got closer.

The main compound was encircled by the gun turrets, which were about thirty metres tall. Their tri-barreled cannons peaked high into the sky. These were connected by a barbed wire fence, enwreathed with sensors. The fence stretched for two hundred metres on all four sides. The marines were facing the main gate, but there was another on the opposite side. Smaller buildings-tech shops, motor pools and supply pads-surrounded the command structure, like the roots of a great tree. It rose above the others, jet-black. There was no human activity, but plenty of Covenant-now scattering at seeing the oncoming Scarab. Even from this distance, Horatio could see fires burning and rubble-and bodies laying here and there. His stomach twisted.

A light company had been assigned to guard the main gate, but the majority of the aliens were emplaced inside. Bravely, the Covenant soldiers stood their ground and opened fire. Dozens of plasma bolts, needles and spikes struck the Scarab, leaving it undamaged. _"Slow us down, "_Massad commanded. _"Power up the cannon."_

Twenty seconds, then a jade beam lanced out. The aliens' screams were drowned out by the roar of the plasma cannon. Charred smoke rose from their corpses. Massad crossed his arms, in a gesture that could have meant anything. "One, "he muttered.

The company's sacrifice had given the remaining aliens time to prepare, and that was now evident. A column of bulbous Wraith tanks filed out of the destroyed gate, and Banshees arose from makeshift airpads. This would be their first real test. "Rocket boys, stand to!" Massad bellowed. "Get the lead out-we've got trouble. _Squids, divert power to the turret and squeeze some targeting data out of the damned system."_

The main gun fired again, and hit the Wraith column. The first two exploded, the plasma in their generators igniting. The other three boosted around the two burnt-out shells and fired. Blue-white spheres of plasma arced through the air and hit the Scarab's hull with a resounding _bang. _More groans and pings ran through the decks. The marines retaliated with a volley of rockets, which destroyed two more Wraiths. But one remained, and then the Banshees arrived.

Swooping, the purple aircraft rained fire down on the hapless marines. Many were caught out in the open, struck down and killed. Others survived, fired back and drove off the aerial attackers. The turret flashed again and again, shooting down Banshees. One lost its right wing and careered into the left front leg, exploding. Metal sheared away.

Horatio was in hell, backed up against the wall. Most of the marines around him were dead, sprawled out on the deck. Dean was nowhere to be seen. Half a Banshee blocked the ramp leading to the foredeck. He spotted an intact plasma cannon on the railing, and cast his eyes about. One marine, still alive, crouched near the wrecked Banshee, white as a sheet and hands over his ears. He went over to him. "Soldier!"

The man looked up, his eyes filled with terror. "They've got us! We're all gonna die!"

Horatio cuffed him. "Snap out of it, damnit. Help me man this gun." He pulled the marine up, and he grabbed the handles on the plasma cannon. "Break it off!"

Grunting, the marine strained at the metal swivel until it broke. "Hold it up, "Horatio barked. "Then when I fire, steady." The shell-shocked marine levered the barrel upward.

Eventually, one aircraft spotted them and dived, guns charging. "Now!" He pulled the handles, and blue pulses spat out with a roar. The rattling numbed his hands, but he was rewarded by seeing the flier disintegrate into a ball of flame. "Hell yeah!"

For the next few minutes, Horatio and his partner took down the Banshees, one at a time. It was a smooth operation. Whenever one was isolated, they'd open fire on it and blow it to bits. If there was a more concerted presence of the aircraft, they took cover. They even played dead once or twice.

Pretty soon, however, the cannon ran out of charge, and they were left without any firepower. Disgusted, Horatio threw down the spent gun, and looked around for their next option. He pulled the other marine to the destroyed Banshee. "Push this-we need to get to the foredeck!"

Suddenly a whine was heard and yet another Covenant flier came at them. He saw a green glow in the barrel. _Shit! _He dived backwards, but his partner was too slow. There was an emerald explosion, and the other marine's scream-mercifully short. Spitting out the acrid taste of plasma gases, he got up and saw that the wreckage had been cleared. He hot-footed it up to the foredeck.

Few remained. Most of the marines were below decks. Massad still stood, like a rock upon which a wave broke. Third-degree burns covered his right arm. Horatio was about to say something, when he saw something. The last Banshee was flying towards Massad, weapons charging. And the master sergeant was stock-still. All he had was a knife, clenched in his fist. His MA5K was discarded to one side.

There was no way he'd survive this, no matter how tough he was. "Sergeant, move!"

Just as the Banshee arrived-at near point-blank range-Massad did move. Time seemed to slow down.

The burly man sidestepped. This movement confused the pilot, causing the Banshee to scrape onto the deck. Quick as a flash, Massad slashed with his knife, slicing through the flimsy wing struts. The lights dimmed, and the aircraft's engines died. With a deadly look on his face, Massad strode over, flung open the cowling and dragged the Brute pilot out by the scruff of his neck-an amazing feat of strength.

There was no remorse in Massad's eyes as he pushed the pilot over the edge, sending him to a horrible death.

Horatio exhaled, almost not believing what had just happened. The aerial attack was over.

That was when a plasma mortar crashed into them, sending shrill warning alarms throughout the Scarab. Everyone staggered, trying to keep their balance. Horatio looked about for the cause, and saw the last Wraith tank, firing at them.

Massad uttered a string of Arabic curses. "Goddamnit, all power to the main gun! We gotta kill that tank!"

The cannon flared, and for a second, it looked as though the Wraith would be obliterated. But then there was a _snap, _and the power failed. The once-mighty Scarab was on its last legs. One more shot would finish them. Horatio hung his head. What a way to go. _We've got a Scarab, and a Wraith ends up killing us? Pathetic._

The mortar cannon peaked up through the tank's armour. Blue plasma coalesced into a ball. It prepared to release the shot-

Then a massive crystalline needler shard embedded itself in the Wraith, seemingly from nowhere. Three seconds, then it detonated. It pierced the vehicle's core, blowing it up. Horatio blinked in surprise. _What the hell?_

Then, behind them, he heard a buzzing. He turned, as did all the marines, to see strange aircraft. They looked like crab's claws-a pair of fins out to both sides and curved downward, with a dome-like cockpit on top. Inside the curve was a crackling anti-gravity generator, and clutched between the fins points was a dual-barreled cannon. One was filled with glowing blue plasma, and the other with more needle bolts. There were around thirteen of these craft. They could have been anyone's, but a distinctive sigil on the cockpit's window-a glowing fist-was unmistakably Sangheilian. The Elites had found them.

Massad laughed shakily. "Nice to have some back-up for a change. _Squids, hold us in place-start making the repairs. If the Elites wanna fight they're welcome to it."_

There was a humming noise, and they looked up, to see a lime-green Phantom dropship hovering above them. The gravity lift opened, and an Elite-also clad in green armour-floated to the deck. He was not smiling and his eyes-a rich gold-were rather cold.

Before any of them could speak, the Elite nodded stiffly to Massad. "Well met, human. Are you in charge of this group?"

The master sergeant found his voice. "That I am. Who are you?"

"Ossoona Kathru Carlu'. But you may call me Vine." He looked around, ignoring the bemused expressions on the faces of the marines. "This Scarab is close to falling apart. You must disembark and continue the fight on foot."

Massad chuckled bitterly. "Well, Vine, in case you haven't noticed, we haven't exactly got everything but the kitchen sink here. The reason we took this damn thing in the first place was so we'd have some firepower against the Covenant."

Vine gave a barely perceptible nod. "Fear not. My fliers will harass the dogs from above, and dropships are a half-unit away. We diverted from the main body of our legion so your base could be liberated. By my Matron's blood, we'll succeed in the attempt." He wasn't too pleased, judging by the tone in his voice.

Massad slowly grinned. "Sure as hell hope so. Now, plans. If we cop another hit we're history. Any ideas?"

Vine scratched his chin. "What is the condition of the reactor?"

"Unstable, "a tech offered. "It could go off any minute now."

Vine nodded again, face devoid of emotion. "The solution is simple. We damage it sufficiently, then charge it into the heart of the Covenant occupation. While they are stunned, we take them unawares. Sound?"

"What about our supplies?"

Vine shrugged indifferently. "It will not be critical."

Massad shrugged. "Well, we don't have any other plans. _Halt the repairs, squids. We're piling out. Marines, get to the railings, and make it snappy." _

A burst of radio chatter sounded, and the Ossoona put a hand to his comlink. A frown came over his face, and he uttered a snarl. "Their blasted infantry have recovered quicker than I thought, and took cover in the streets. My fighters will have minimal effect. We risk much."

Massad pointed upward at the floating dropship. "Then let's squeeze a couple of our boys onto the Phantom. Get your fliers to provide cover and we'll land on a rooftop."

The Elite nodded. "I will supervise the reactor's redlining. Get your men to safety." The alien limbered off towards the power core. Marines were now emerging from the lower deck.

"Alright!" Massad barked. "Apparently, our joyride is at an end, and it's time to use our feet for a change. The majority of you will be heading through the front doors. It ain't a death sentence, though, so quit your bitching. The rest of us will post on the rooftops and lay down cover fire. The Elite ships will provide support. Move! You two, help me get Caputo into the Phantom."

The battered platoon began descending the ropes. Massad, Horatio and seven more marines stepped into the grav lift, into the shadowy confines of the Phantom's troop bay. The huddled form of Caputo was placed in a corner. Handholds lined the walls, and the pair of flaps lined with plasma cannons could be seen. A few Elites, clad in iridescent green armour, stood near the cockpit, looking impassive. Strange crests were inscribed on their arms. They almost looked like weapons.

Horatio was momentarily intrigued by his new surroundings. It had been some time since he'd been inside a Phantom dropship. Despite his disdain for the Elites, he found the dim recesses of the troop carrier, accompanied with the purple lighting, to be somewhat soothing. Contrast with the Pelicans, with the blaring red lights and "blood tray." Oddly enough, the preference did not bother him.

Vine floated back up the lift, the Engineers behind him. It sealed shut behind him. "Find us a vantage point, "he commanded the pilot. "Warriors, man the turrets." The Elite soldiers obeyed, and the flaps opened with a hiss. Daylight shone through. With a shudder, the Phantom fired its engines and lifted off. The Elite told Massad, "The reactor will take some time to fail. When it does, pull your men back." The sergeant nodded.

The dropship jinked from side to side, avoiding enemy fire. The Elites send bursts of fire downwards, and the fore gun rained purple plasma on the Covenant scattered in the streets. The pilot's voice crackled. _"Leader, there are anti-aircraft cannons nearby. I cannot go any further. Prepare to disembark._"

"_Understood." _The Ossoona faced Massad. "We must put down-do you have a preference?"

Massad leaned out of the flap, squinting. Amidst reactors and storage warehouses, he saw a two-storey residential-style building, with generators scattered about on the rooftop. It was surrounded by open space-no attacker would be able to hide in the shadows. A fire escape was bolted on one side. "Over there, Ossoona. It'll do just fine."

The Phantom cruised to a stop above the building, just a bolt of plasma slammed into its flanks. The shields fizzled, and they lurched. "Let's get off this thing!" Massad barked, and the marines piled into the grav lift. Vine and three of his Elites opted to jump out of the flaps instead, hitting the concrete surface with a _thump._

Horatio floated down the lift, and bent his knees as he descended. Massad was the last one out. Another burst of plasma hit the Phantom. Trailing smoke, it flew off before more attacks followed.

"Marines, stand to!" Massad snapped. "Zerba, find a good spot and do your stuff. Crowley, take four men and secure the interior. The rest of you, make some noise. Make those sons-of-bitches poke their heads out." He turned to speak with Vine, only to find him and his cohorts gone. He growled with frustration. "Damn Elite grandstanding."

By now, the other marines had entered the compound. They were at the bottom of a T-intersection. Amidst heavy plasma fire, they took cover behind destroyed vehicles and buildings. They numbered around forty. The alien soldiers numbered around three times that. It would be close.

Horatio, inspecting the rooftop, found an ideal sniping spot, nestled between a hunk of rubble and a cube-shaped ventilation unit. He spread some of the debris around, and settled in. Finally, he spread some of the dust and dirt over himself, darkening his khaki uniform. He was now practically invisible. His hand reached out, pressed a button and the bipod flicked down.

Targets, targets. Down in the streets there was no shortage of Covenant, but they were already occupied. He searched amongst the nooks and crannies, in the slits of windows, underneath overhangs-and found his first. A Jackal, beam rifle in hand, was preparing to line up a shot on a marine on the street. Peering through the scope, he centred the reticule upon its spiny head.

The bullet exited through the back of its head, sending a spray of blood and brain matter against the wall. The Jackal toppled.

Pleased, he swept the rifle around again. That shot would have alerted the other snipers. Standing behind a supply crane. _Bam. _An indigo streak whistled past his ear and he swore. The culprit-perched atop a munitions container. _Bam. _He reloaded.

For the next few minutes, Horatio continued his private crusade against the Covenant snipers. He was surprised at their lack of skill, given how many marines had died to their ilk during the war. _Must be replacements._

He couldn't stay hidden forever, though. Covenant infantry were now sending bursts of fire up at his hiding spot. The stone bubbled and cracked from the heat. Ruefully, Horatio left his spot, and went to stand with his fellow marines.

Massad was directing them. "Toss grenades on my mark. Mark!" A quartet of frag grenades bounced down to street level, and landed near a clutch of fusion coils. The resulting explosion erased five Grunts and their Brute leader. High-fives were traded. One fired at a straggler, trying to crawl to safety. "Good work, marines."

But the Covenant numbers began to tell. Despite their superior position, and the Elite ships zipping through the sky, firing at concerted groups of Covenant, the aliens had reserves. Out of the wrecked shells of buildings, auxiliary units streamed. These were comprised mostly of Grunts and Jackals, but there were a lot of them. Several towed plasma cannons. They'd not last long under that kind of firepower. Down on the street, a row of sandbags was consumed in a violet explosion-along with the three marines crouched behind it.

And Vine was still nowhere to be seen.

Crowley, the lone Helljumper in their group, clambered through the trapdoor leading into the building. "Sergeant, the place is secure, but one of my boys spotted some Brutes coming in through the back. About eight, one of them a major."

Massad swore. "Get everyone up here. They'll only be able to come up one at a time."

"Aye, sir." Crowley hurried off.

Fun and games were over. Horatio sniped the occasional alien, but else he kept his gun trained on the hatch. The tension was palpable. Brutes were never known for a quiet entrance. When they arrived, they would arrive in gunfire and blood.

Minutes ticked by, and nothing happened. Massad cursed in impatience. "Are you sure you saw 'em, Crowley?" The ODST nodded emphatically.

There was a series of sudden thumps from below. Massad cautiously went over to the trapdoor, poked his MA5K down it. His eyes widened. "I don't believe it."

The marines crowded around the trapdoor. A ladder led down to a platform, around which the bodies of the would-be attackers were arrayed. Starbursts of blood and gore spread out from their heads. From the looks of things, they had not even gotten the chance to fire their weapons.

On the body of the major, something glinted. Massad climbed down and picked it up.

It was a coin, with a vine inscribed on it.

It was ever their way. There were plenty of Sangheili to fight on the front lines or-in this case-plenty of humans. Creating tales to be sung by the chroniclers, spinning glory. But what of subtlety? What of ghost-like assaults, of feint and blind, of the driven knife?

The responsibility, inevitably, lay with the Ossoona. The hidden cadre of assassins, spies and infiltrators. Legends among the Sangheili, to be whispered of in dark corners. Oh, frowned upon by many-claiming that they had no honour. That to slink, unseen, was a coward's way. But they were wrong.

And as Kathru Carlu', also known as Vine, thought of this, a shiver of delight ran up his spine.

The humans were pitiful warriors, despite their tenacity. They fell prey to their enemies with embarrassing regularity. Vine had no desire to fight alongside them. Instead, he and his band would strike out on their own, and wreak havoc where they may. The Brute subpack, headed their way, were the first victims.

Ossoonas always had the best technology. Inside the building, Vine placed a proximity scanner on one wall. It would immediately alert them of anybody who would enter the structure. The Covenant were not so stupid as to allow snipers to rain fire down on them without price.

The scanner beeped, and now the sounds of Brutes echoed through the building. The dumb beasts were clumping up the stairs. In the small room, bare except for the ladder, Vine and his band activated their camouflage. And then took their positions.

The Brute major entered the room first, sniffing the air. No chance of their discovery-their armour had odour suppressors built-in. Sensing nothing, the major made for the ladder, his brethren behind him. The shaggy aliens formed a circle around the ladder.

Vine, hanging above their heads from the top rung, powered his _neska-_or energy whip-on. A magnetized whipcord glowed with red light, and he swung it in an arc. The plasma tip drilled through the heads of four Jiralhanae, killing them instantly. Crying out in shock and rage, they leveled their weapons upward.

His warriors revealed themselves, and fired their arm-mounted launchers. Thin, stiletto-like energy splinters sank into vulnerable regions-the neck, the armpit, the groin, courtesy of brilliant targeting software. Severing tendons and arteries. Dumbfounded, three Brutes found themselves dead before they knew it.

The last one gaped, and Vine reached forward, jabbing his finger into the major's eye, penetrating the brain. It died, sinking to the floor. Thus, eight down in just as many seconds. Vine leapt down, and deposited his calling card. "Vaunted Jiralhanae, "he snorted sarcastically.

One of his subordinates, Coil, reloaded his launcher with a plasma pack. "Your orders, leader?"

He nodded outside. "To the streets. Let the humans fight the Covenant dogs in plain sight-they deserve little better. This place must be a veritable hunting ground for ones such as us." The Ossoonas grinned in anticipation. Trophies and kills awaited them.

They descended the stairs, then out the door. To their left, about fifty metres down the street, the Covenant bulwark tried to keep the humans at bay. Vine eyed them appraisingly. _Far too many Unggoy and Kig-Yar. Where are the Jiralhanae? _Shaking his head, he directed his warriors to the right, around a corner.

Another long street preceded them, filled with debris and the corpses of humans. Orange dust powdered their bodies in a sordid imitation of snow. Nothing moved.

Then voices were heard, coming from a side-street. Beckoning to his warriors, Vine bounded forward, camouflage activating.

Two Brutes, clad in low-grade cobalt armour, were squabbling over a carcass. As Vine drew closer, he realised that it was that of a human, its lower torso having been completely hacked off. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, and leant forward to hear what they were saying. His band hovered behind him.

"This meat fills my belly, it is true, "one grumbled. "But it is an infidel, even in death. The dishonour sours my tongue."

"It is Chieftain Ferradus's will, "the other said shortly.

"Glory to his name, "the first Brute replied, by rote. "Even so, his orders are strange. Unsettling. Why should we have to-"

"Enough, Brek!" the second Brute snapped. "Say no more on this matter. Now, the humans are pressing. We must attend to the summons." It tossed away a gnawed bone, straightened his harness and stomped away. The other Brute followed it, still grumbling.

Quietly, the Elites followed. The only sound they made was the muted rasp of their combat harnesses.

A few minutes of venturing down side passages and streets resulted in a large, open space, not far from the main building. Judging from the burning hulks of human vehicles, it had once been a motor pool. It was about two hundred square feet, and had been fenced in. It now lay broken in the dirt. The Brute pair picked their way through it and disappeared from sight.

Pointing at a wrecked troop transport near the entrance, Vine sent two Elites-Tendril and Creeper-behind it and beckoned Coil, forming a hand signal. _Reconaissance._

Coil affirmed this, and the pair crept in closer.

Fourteen Brutes stood around, preparing weapons. From what Vine could see, they were all veterans-save the new arrivals. Five were clad in the burnished crimson armor of majors. A hulking specimen, clad in turquoise armor, presided over the gathering.

"Now is the time, brothers, "he told the pack. "The lesser races keep the humans at bay. Once we unveil our new construct, we can throw them back at our leisure." The savages growled their pleasure.

One asked, "But what of the Elites and their bombers?"

"They'll be of little consequence once the humans are gone, "the leader said dismissively. "Now, you three, bring it forward." A trio of Brutes exited via another street. Vine faced Coil. _Get inside yon building. _He nodded to a warehouse on their left.

_As you order. _Coil slunk off, heading for the structure. It would be useful to have a man on the rooftops. Just as he refocused, something massive appeared from the far street.

It was unmistakably Jiralhanae in design-covered in black-grey metal, with barbs and spikes pointing out from various places-but the similarity ended there. The vehicle was rectangular, and had six spindly legs. The feet were magnetized, and covered in spines, so it could better cling to a surface. Bolted on top of the rectangle was a command console and at least ten seats. There was a steel frame which would lend passangers some protection. On its underside, two auto turrets could be seen, as well as several strange tubes. Quiet it was not-coloured gases and steam crackled through gaps in the armor.

Overall, it looked like some massive, ungainly spider. It did not look like much of a threat. Still, he would reserve judgement.

The spider vehicle lowered itself down, and the Brutes boarded it, whooping war cries. The Brute leader settled in at the helm, and, thumping, the vehicle lumbered off.

The Ossonas revealed themselves. Vine stroke his chin. "Interesting. This bears closer watching. _Coil, follow that machine via the roofs. We will take the streets."_

"_Roger."_

Tendril raised a hand deferentially. "Should we warn the humans of what is to come?"

Vine thought on this. Then said:

"No."

Mission Clock: 1752

With a face that ugly, it was impossible to miss. Horatio pulled the trigger and gave the Brute a third nostril.

That was his fifth Brute since they'd landed and there was still no respite. The marines on the street were being wasted and had been pushed back to the gates, where nothing but a ditch and a few barricades stood between them and annhilation. Behind them, the Scarab waited, to be used as a last resort-although Horatio hoped it wouldn't come to that. The Covenant were dug in like zebet worms, as Terry was wont to say.

After the first death squad had suffered mysterious deaths, the Covenant had sent another. Then another after that. The squad had burnt through a lot of ammo-ammo they could have used on the aliens below. No grenades either-and still the Elites hadn't shown up. Massad was busy inventing a list of names to refer to Vine as. Split-head was prominent amongst them.

Several clinks were heard, and several hooks spiraled upward, their claws digging into the masonry of the rooftop. Taking a risk, Horatio peaked his head out. Brutes, their muscles stretched taut, were climbing the building. Thick black ropes were clenched in their hands.

"Sarge!" Horatio yelled over the sounds of gunfire and plasma bursts. "They're climbing up!"

Massad snarled in frustration. "Cut the ropes. We'll cover you. Shake a damn leg!"

Horatio drew his combat knife, and hustled to the roof's lip. Trying to ignore the sporadic fire directed his way, he reached down, set the blade to the rope, and cut it. The alien dropped away with a howl of despair, landing with a crunch on the ground.

He proceeded to cut the rest of the ropes, doing his best to dodge any incoming plasma. When he reached the last one, the Brute climbing it had almost reached the top. Frantically, he tried to cut the rope-

The alien lunged upwards, grabbing his wrists. Yelping, Horatio tried to pull away, but its grip was too strong. He scragged at ther Brute's fur with the knife, and scored a bloody path along it. But it didn't seem to feel the wounds, and tightened its grip. By now, Horatio was half-falling off the roof. The ground looked dizzingly far away.

He racked his brains for a solution. There weren't a lot of options. He glared into the alien's face. It smiled, lips curling back to reveal razor jags of teeth. A snort rumbled through its throat-

That was when Horatio headbutted him. A lance of pain jammed into his skull, but it had the desired effect. The Brute's grip sagged, and it toppled backwards, falling end over end. It landed on its head, and it broke with a sickening crack.

The head butt's momentum had sent him forward as well. Horatio slipped over the rooftop, and just managed to grip the rope. He was now facing the ground. The rope felt slick, but that was probably just the sweat on his palms. He swung in the wind and his stomach dropped away.

_OK, _he thought. _OK._ _Keep it together. Orient yourself the proper way. Don't think about falling. Don't think about the hordes of aliens waiting on the street. Don't think how hard the ground is-oh, fuck!_

Forcing himself to breath slowly, Horatio wrapped his feet around the rope, and then removed his hands. He dangled like an apple in a tree, and his adrenaline spiked. Hepulled his torso upward, until the rope was within reach. Lunging upward, he managed to grab it. He released his feet and started to pull himself upward.

He reached the lip of the roof, just as his muscles were screaming in protest. He stretched out a hand-

A plasma bolt caught him on the shoulder, burning through the khaki leather. The sudden pain caused him to lose his grip, and he plummeted downward with a shout of dismay.

Massad grabbed Crowley's arms and pulled him back, out of the line of fire. He was about to yell for a med-pack, when he noticed the man's legs were missing, blown off by the plasma blast. Grimly, he dropped his arms.

It looked as though this would be it. No Elites, minimal air-support, and now Zerba had fallen, likely to his death. Massad wondered what his death would be like. Sudden or foreseeable? Agonising or quick? _No. Stop right there. You're still alive, damnit._

A marine named Akiro poked his head through the trapdoor. "Sir! Found some goodies downstairs." He shoved an M41 SSR MAV/AW launcher and two duffel bags through the opening.

Massad's face split into a wide grin. "Finally, some good news for a change. Find a heavy weapons man and get the bastard to use it. What's in them bags?"

Akiro rifled through them. "Couple of assault weapons and pistols, "he reported. "And a grenade launcher."

"Hand 'em out. I'll take the grenade launcher." He reached into the bag, and hefted the bulky weapon. A small handle, with a long stock and barrel and a fat, circular ammunition holder slung underneath, it was the LB/HE-O27 grenade launcher, a compact weapon designed to barbecue targets when circumstances wouldn't allow for heavier weapons.

Massad had been something of a perennial loser when it came to these weapons-either they were all taken, or there were never any left. It appeared he was about to get his due. Smiling, he retrieved one of the oversized shells and slipped it into the holder. It was ready to fire.

Orville, a heavy weapons specialist, was give the launcher. He loaded it with relish. "Tell me where you want 'em, Sarge, "the big man gloated.

Massad peered over the edge, just ducking a stream of plasma. The damn turrets were still in play. "Empty both tubes at them turrets, Orville, then pull back. When the smoke clears, I'll send a few bombs their way. Then everyone open up. We've got a real chance now, marines!" The group grinned in anticipation.

Orville climbed onto a stack of pallets, sighted through the scope, and fired once, twice. The warheads streaked through the air, and scored direct hits on the plasma turrets. A thunderous crack, and massive divots were blown in the ground, and when the smoke cleared, the heavy weapons were gone. Covenant soldiers in the vicinity stumbled around, trying to work out what the hell had just happened. Grunts cried and screeched, many going into the fetal position.

Orville stepped back smartly, and offered a mock salute to Massad, meaty fist planted on his forehead. "All yours, sir."

Massad hustled to the edge, and aimed squarely down. Shellshocked aliens, none of them realizing what was about to happen. He found a concerted bunch of Covenant, and, exhaling, pulled the trigger.

A black orb thanked out of the barrel, and arced towards the ground, landing amongst the aliens.

An earsplitting explosion, and the ten or so-strong group of aliens were blown apart. Blood and gore painted the various walls, and scraps of flesh rained down like leaves. Massad surveyed the scene with pleasure. "See, they ain't so tough, "he remarked. "Take them down before they recover!"

The group lined the rooftop, pouring a furious barrage onto the Covenant. Without their turrets, the aliens were vulnerable. The impact was devastating-dozens of Covenant dropped like rag dolls. The few Brutes tried to marshal their forces, but to no avail. The marine force at the gates joined in, eventually mounting a charge that drove the occupiers away from the T-intersection, and further into the base. Wailing and screaming curses, the aliens withdrew.

The marines on the streets-now numbering twenty-seven-didn't waste time. Fireteams of three were sent to guard the two streets, and an immediate search for weapons and ammo commenced. A few marksman took up positions in the shadows, in case of a counterattack.

Massad sent another grenade after the stragglers, and then shouldered the weapon. They had won. It had been bloody, but they had won. "Nice work, marines, "he said. "Let's get off this roof and get to the others-"

A massive mechanical roaring filled the air, and all eyes snapped upward, to a particularly tall building.

The sight of what appeared to be a clanking, ugly version of a Scarab clinging to the building's side was the last thing they expected to see. It was definitely not human. Shouts and expletives filled the air. A few raised their weapons, but most of the marines did nothing. They weren't sure what to do.

Massad had no such reservations. He aimed upward, and sent a grenade corkscrewing towards the construct.

An explosion-then a shimmering blue field, surrounding the vehicle. It had shields. That wasn't good. The dust from the blast cleared, and there was silence.

Then the aliens sent their response. Its turrets swiveled, and fired a pair of red canisters at the marines. They tried to maneuver out of the way, but were too slow.

The metal cylinders exploded with flash and thunder, a seething mass of oily flames. The unfortunate marines caught in the fire were burnt alive, and left behind were four carbonised skeletons. Barks of satisfaction from the Brute crew could be heard.

Massad fumbled with his ammo, barking into the radio all the while. "Damnit, marines, take cover! Get away from that thing! Get away! Break down its shields!" Even as he spoke, he saw the aliens manning the spider open fire, and cut down two more soldiers. They were running out of leathernecks.

Their enemy might have been alone, but it was deadly-and something that could quite possibly kill them all.

Lights, noises-these were the things that greeted Horatio as he came to. He couldn't recall the last time he'd woken peacefully. _Shore leave? That night in Palikir, got wasted and-_

He became acutely aware of the stabbing pain in his chest, and he tried to take in his surroundings. He was lying in a rubbish skip, on a bed of cans, barrels and worse. Gunfire echoed dimly. How'd he gotten here?

The memory of the fall returned, and he grimaced. Raising his head, he saw that a jagged curl off a metal box was stuck in his chest. Not deep, but still painful. He reached out, grasped it and, breathing deeply, pulled.

The pain smacked him awake, and he took a proper look around. He was below the building that he had been on, but the skip was nestled between two containers, hidden from plain sight. He considered yelling for help, then decided against it. Checking to see that his weapons and pack were all there, he lifted himself out of the rubbish.

Stumbling out into the street, he saw that the main gate lay to his left, and that the streets were now clear of Covenant-and marines. Ominous. He drew his sidearm and racked the slide. Proceeding down the street, he headed down an alleyway.

And ran smack bang into a Jackal. The alien squawked in surprise, and attempted to bring its needler into play before Horatio hammered it in the cheek. The maxilla broke with a _snap _and the alien dropped, its face a red ruin. He shot it once to confirm its death.

No longer on edge, Horatio heard movement back in the street and returned to the wide thoroughfare. Seeing a few marines run past, he raised a hand. "Hey, where are you-"

He heard a whistling noise, up high, and instinctively dived, hands over ears.

A mortar blew the pavement behind him into pieces. If he hadn't moved when he did… Horatio got to his feet, searching for the source. Light glinted off something high up.

The spider, manned by Brutes, left him more puzzled than afraid. What kind of machine was this? It was ancient tech, even for Brutes. Even as he watched, the vehicle moved along the wall it was clinging to, and fired a strange canister.

It blew up, fifty paces distant, into a fireball. He heard screams, and the sounds of running feet. Five or six marines broke cover and sprinted towards his location.

One, with a bandage over his eye, turned to look at him. "You wanna live, _muchacho_?" he yelled. "Get your ass into cover and outta the line of fire!"

Just as Horatio was about to utter a retort, a blinding flash appeared and two lines of plasma strafed up the street. Stepping quickly back into the alley, he shielded himself from the extreme heat. When it stopped, he charged across the space. It was about thirty steps. The sun beat down overhead.

He tensed, waiting for the blast of fire or plasma that would swallow him whole. Ten paces-

The whistling noise again. Once again he dived, landing hard on the ground.

The flash of light blinded him, casting eerie jagged shadows against the walls. Blisters formed and popped. Numbly, he got up and hobbled into the alley. He wasn't sure how many more of those he could survive. White blobs danced in his vision.

Hearing chittering before him, he primed a grenade and threw it, the black orb bouncing off the closed-in walls. There was an explosion, a scream, and two Grunts fled cover in terror. Emptying his clip straight ahead, he was rewarded with two cries of pain. Shaking his head until the spots faded, he moved forward.

He heard the roar of the spider's weapons again, and saw it through a gap in the buildings. From somewhere, rockets zoomed upward and hit the Brute construct. The shield flashed again, and the metal frame didn't even have a scorch on it.

Shields…His gaze dropped, to one of the Grunt corpses. It had been carrying a plasma pistol. He bent down, and holstered it.

It was a sniper's job to isolate himself from the rest of his comrades, to provide that ace in the hole. Massad was good, but not good enough for something like this. Initiative was needed. Maybe he could provide that.

He headed out of the alley, and surveyed the building on which the spider perched. There was a fire escape along the side. Hitching up his sniper rifle, he padded off quietly.

Vine crouched beside a fallen human truck, along with Tendril and Creeper. They were below the Brute spider's building. Coil was nearby, awaiting further orders.

From what he could see, the humans' resistance had faltered. Against something like this, they had no defence. Sporadic gunfire chattered upward, having no effect. The fools.

A sonic boom rattled through the air, and Vine saw one of his Templar fighters inbound, cannons charging. It unleashed a fusillade of plasma bolts and needles, then peeled off, preparing for another attack. Vine waited for the barrage to hammer the Brute vehicle. It did not.

At the last moment, the spider's grip on the building loosened, and it dropped down, until it reestablished the hold. The plasma and needles smashed uselessly against the building, blowing a sizeable chunk out of it.


	14. Chapter 13 Pt 2

Vine was dumbfounded. Surely it would not evade destruction forever.

Another Templar screamed through the sky, nearly scraping the tops of the buildings. This one carried a spiky, purple missile in place of the needler cannon. With a _phoomph _it detached and streaked toward the spider, violet fuel burning from the casing. The Ossonas watched expectantly.

There was a blaring roar, and they saw several jets on the spider's underside ignite. The legs retracted, and the entire construct vaulted into the air, borne on engine power. Just leaping over the Templar's rocket, it found another building opposite, and crashed into it. Shields flared, but the spider had escaped unharmed. The missile struck the same building, almost blowing it in half. Debris showered down onto the streets.

The spider recovered quickly. Swivelling to face the lagging flier, it released a stream of plasma bolts from multiple turrets, and took it down. The Templar spiraled into the ground and detonated.

The other fliers kept their distance, now wary of what this construct was capable of. A few more strafed it with plasma cannons, but this had little effect. It was clear that something had to be done. Vine clicked his COM.

"_Coil. Where are you?"_

"_I am two buildings east of you, the one with the black antenna. I can see all from this position." _A squat radio tower rose over the other buildings, crowned with humming metal stalks. Vine could not see his warrior, but knew he was there.

"_Very good. Now, can you attain a position upon the building the spider is perched on, without descending to street level?"_

There were a few seconds of silence. Then: _"It will be difficult, but I believe I can. What would you have me do, leader?"_

"_You must board the spider and disable it, "_Vine explained. _"We will draw it away and give you time to carry this out. Wait for the signal. Understood?"_

"_I do, and await." _Coil snapped off.

The trio of Ossoonas engaged their active camoflage again, and hustled along a side street, until they emerged at the place below the spider.

A square, around fifty metres wide. Here, the buildings were low-lying, crowded together like a slave gang. Most had been undamaged in the fighting, but in some cavernous gaps had been blasted. There was a raised section in the centre, where benches and a large, ugly scuplture of the planet Gethrii sat. There was plenty of cover to be hand here, but few routes out-Vine could see only a few side streets.

No humans were present. They must be further away, attacking from a distance. _That is well. I need no human weakling getting underfoot._ Even as he watched, the spider, hanging above their heads, spat another stream of plasma at an unseen target. It had not seen them. Off to its left, the antenna building rose.

Pointing at a steel column and a packing crate, he sent Tendril and Creeper to their respective positions. Vine himself bounded forward, and settled behind the statue of Gethrii. Disabling his camoflage to conserve power, he removed a canister from his harness, removed the plasma pack from his arm-launcher and slotted the canister in. Sparks flickered from his armor, and a pulsing blue light filled its insides.

When it was full, he checked that it was ready, and sent a whistle over the COM. He recived two in return, and poked himself out of hiding. Straightening his arm, he fired the EMP canister. It arced upward, and struck the spider.

Long strings of azure energy spread over the spider's shields, making a noise not unlike a beehive. The noise reached a crescendo, and the spider's shields failed. Its movement was slow, erratic. The Brutes on board were confused, wondering what had happened to their vehicle. In a few seconds, the shields had recovered and all was well. Then two more canisters struck them.

This had a tremendous effect. The spider all but fell to the ground, only just managing to stay in place. The engines and turrets shut down abruptly, and the shields were offline. Its passengers were understandably pissed, and their heads swung this way and that, looking for the culprit. Vine grew irritated at their dim-wittedness, and stepped out of cover.

Moments later, he regretted that. Plasma bolts and spikes flew towards him, and his shields almost burst. Rubbing a scorched arm, he initiated his comlink. _"Coil. Four suns above the plain."_

"_Lances of red and white." _There was a brief sound of movement, and then nothing.

It was an old code used by the Ossoona. On the off chance the Jiralhanae had eavesdropping equipment, they would communicate in secret. Coil was ready and on the move. Vine cupped his chin and pondered.

Coil was as fine an Ossoona as he'd ever commanded. But there was an awkwardness-a clumsiness-to his ways. It was embarrassing. He had reviewed his file, noted his background. It was highly irregular. Whether his subordinate would come through was debatable. Although Vine wished him well, he could not help thinking that perhaps he would be better off, were something to happen.

Coil had been lying flat amongst the tangles of wire and steel rods that mobbed the antenna tower's roof. Such a position did not bother him unduly-he had once maintained such a pose for eight days straight, when waiting to ambush a human convoy. Discipline was the byword of the Ossoona. Something he had never possessed before-_no, that is not safe thinking, no._

Unlike his commander, who held a scarcely-concealed disdain for humans-indeed, for all who were not Ossoona-Coil was more fair. He had seen twelve cycles before accepting the Reed that qualified him for Ossoona training, and thus had been more willful than the other, indoctrinated disciples. He respected their allies and had fought alongside them in the past. Vine's decision to leave them had been most troubling. _It borders on treason. Dagger-hand or no, he would be skinned alive for such an offense._

He would follow orders, as he had always done. But he could not shake a feeling that they would be made to pay for their arrogance. Soon. He was a superstitious person, and had a healthy respect for that which was unseen.

When the message came through, Coil became all business. He sprang nimbly to his feet, remaining in a crouch. He held that pose, then moved slowly to the roof's edge, leaning against a pylon. Straight ahead, across a gap of twenty feet, the spider's building rose. It was too far to jump, but he already knew this. Before carrying out his plan, he quickly took stock of the situation.

The spider was still shaking off the effects of the EMP, its attention diverted. He uncoiled his _neska, _deactivated the tipand began looking for a good grapple point. A rusty girder, poking out of the building's side, caught his eye.

He reached down, and activated the magnetism function on his boots. Standing on concrete, they had no effect-but they would on metal. Swinging his arm back, he let fly.

The _neska's _tip soared over the divide and wrapped around the girder, curling several times. Coil allowed himself a small grin, and then checked that it was tight. Taking a deep breath, he leapt off the edge.

There was a moment of weightless hovering-then he was abruptly swinging towards the building. Bracing himself, he tucked in his legs and hit the wall. It held, but stars burst through his brain, and the wind was knocked out of him. Shaking his angular head to clear it, he carefully set his boots to the steel plating and set one hand on the wall, the grooves in his gauntlet clamping tight. He loosened the _neska _with the other and holstered it.

Concentrating, he sidled along the wall. There was a slight breeze, tugging at his harness. The ground was far below. After a few minutes, he reached the corner of the building and peered around it.

The spider was only a few metres away, the Jiralhanae crew hanging on for dear life and raining fire down on the square below. Slowly, he pulled his _neska _out and activated his camoflage. Silently, he snapped it out and watched it wrap around a protruding piece of metal on the spider. The grating noise of its engines completely masked the sound.

It was now just a matter of waiting. In keeping with his beliefs, he waited thirty seconds.

Puffing, Horatio ascended the last few stairs on the fire escape. It had been no mean feat to get up here-he'd dodged several Covenant patrols and almost fallen to his death when some stairs gave way. But he'd made it, and was ready to deliver some pain.

The roof was devoid of architecture, save for a large zip-line system. It was designed to transport crates between buildings. It was damaged, but still active. He moved up, towards the edge.

Below him was a small plaza-but the smoke haze and plasma vapour made it hard to see. The spider had settled on the tower across from him, and was assaulting something below. No doubt some sorry-ass marines who'd been caught in the open. Here was a chance to help them. He unlimbered his sniper rifle, placed it next to him and pointed his plasma pisto, at the construct. Squeezing the trigger, a sphere of green energy grew at the tip. Would it work over this distance?

Just as he was about to release it, several small objects flew out of the haze and hit the spider. Crackling, its shields shut down and its engines fizzled out. Roars of infuriation echoed up the walls. Horatio was dumbfounded.

Then something else happened.

_Thirty!_

Coil raised his other arm and fired as many rounds as possible. The deadly shards of plasma cut through the Brute armor, tearing through arteries and organs. Two Brutes died bloody deaths. When he ran out, he pushed off the wall and rocketed forward. His feet landed hard on the spider's deck. Vertigo clawed at him, but he shook it off.

Quickly, coldly, he sized up his opponents. Three immediate-the rest would take time to reach him. He raised his _neska _and slashed it through the air-

-only to find the tip was inactive. The first Jiralhanae snuffled scornfully, and lashed out with a jagged knife. Shields cut out, and pain ripped through Coil.

Cursing his mistake, his shameful dirty mistake, he threw down his energy whip and whipped an elbow into the alien's face. While it staggered back, he drew his energy sword and cut him in half.

The other two Brutes attacked, one lunging forward in a tackle. Coil smartly sidestepped, and stomped its back, breaking the spine. A flick of his sword sent the other one reeling. Adrenaline surged through him.

The spider's crew now took full notice of him. The spider's legs drew up, almost together. They were now more or less level. One Brute, wearing turquoise battle armor, pointed and yelled, "Kill him! Kill the Skulker!"

Coil was momentarily amused. The Brute stalkers, compared to the Sangheili Ossoonas, were as toddlers clutching at the teat. Jealous of this, their hated enemies had named them Skulkers, a name that was living proof of their idiocy. _They-no, we-are _much _more than that._

Two more Brutes came forward and opened up with their spiker rifles. Nimbly, Coil dodged the shots, grabbed the metal spar above his head and launched forward, his momentum carrying him into the pair. They hit the railings, snapped them and tumbled earthward screaming.

He tried to recover quickly, but four more Brutes attacked, one with a plasma rifle. Shots slammed into him, depleting his shields and burning his skin. Stifling a yell, he drew a carbine from his belt and emptied the clip, killing one and wounding another. Throwing it aside, he charged with sword in hand.

That proved to be a mistake. A major slammed a hairy fist into his abdomen, doubling him over. Another bit into his arm, the fangs drawing blood. He dropped his sword, and it shut off. Soon he would be overwhelmed. He had no tricks left.

Or maybe not. He remembered, part of his armor schematic, an oft-ignored function…

Wrenching his arm over, he slid back a panel on his right hand, revealing two holes. He inserted two fingers in it, ignoring the snarling Brute still gnawing at him. Nothing happened-

Then what looked like green talons flared on the knuckles of his gauntlets. The heat they gave off forced the second Brute to remove its grip, and it drew a knife on him.

A second later, and that alien was falling, nerveless hands clutching at a ruin of a face. The blow from Coil's left gauntlet had been devastating. Even as the Brutes gawked, he lashed out again in fury. Bones snapped and eyes burst. The blows left burns on anything they touched.

Coil had been saved by use of the _xonsz-fen, _or fire mauls. Energy was rerouted from the plasma coils in his armor, and channeled into receptors in his gauntlets. They would not last long, but they were bloodily effective. Most Ossoona disdained the use of them, labeling them "clumsy" and "unwieldy."

But Coil was not like them.

The other four Brutes pushed backward, intent on getting away from the crazed Elite. Spikers chattered, and several rounds found their way into his gut. They felt like shards of burning agony. Staving off the pain, he barreled forward, fists swinging.

His fist caught one in the jaw, shattering it and clogging the windpipe. Another jabbed with his spiker blades, creating a deep gash across Coil's shoulder blades. That one had his nose hammered back through his face, killing him instantly. Two more-then the drivers, and the chieftain.

His momentary elation was snuffed out when a Brute threw itself bodily at him, knocking him to the ground. He struggled to rise, but the alien headbutted him, sending him back down. He was dimly aware of a pair of hands closing around his throat. Then jagged pain in his chest. Blackness grew at the corners of his vision. Was this, then, his fate? Strangled by a Brute minor, not even leaving a memory of his being there?

They had been right, then. His detractors, the ones who had beaten and starved him when his mother had died, leaving him alone…

_I was never enough. Never sufficient. I understand that now-_

An idea formed in his oxygen-deprived brain, and he squinted at his gauntlets. They still pulsed with emerald energy. Perhaps it would work. He rummaged around with one hand, and found a discarded spike rifle. Gripping it like a drowning man clutches a liferaft, he brought it up and slashed his hands with it. Then he shoved them into his attacker's face.

He heard a tortured scream, and his vision cleared. Blood ran from his hands, but it was as nothing compared to the gobbets of plasma that were now incinerating the Brute's face, burning through it. Shaking its head, it tried to rid itself of the plasma, but couldn't. After giving one final, agonized roar, it toppled. Dead. The Ossoona was about to sigh with relief, when a shadow fell across him.

The fourth Brute pulled its comrade's body aside and hefted a grenade launcher. The bayonet glinted. Coil closed his eyes and waited for the end.

Horatio had watched with confusion, then awe, as the lone Elite boarded the spider and proceeded to kick some serious ass. As much as he disliked them, he had to respect their fighting skills and tenacity. It looked as though the threat would soon be over.

But then the deadly alien faltered, and the Brutes jumped on him. He disappeared from sight, then reappeared, swinging glowing green fists like a madman. He gave a low whistle as he pummeled more Brutes. Maybe this time…

But then he was on his back, and a Brute had him dead to rights, a brute shot pointed at his face. It was all over now. Or was it? He glanced at the sniper rifle beside him.

It wouldn't matter. There were more Elites out there, somewhere. This one would probably die from his wounds anyway. There weren't enough Brutes left to be a threat. He didn't have to. He didn't-

_Shit._

Trying not to think about it too much, Horatio kneeled, pressed the weapon's barrel to his shoulder, lined up the target through the scope and fired.

The bullet left a gaseous trail, hitting the Brute in the neck. Immediately, it dropped to one knee, wheezing and clutching at the gaping hole. Coil pushed back the shroud of exhaustion and lashed out at the wounded alien. Catching it on the side of the head, it fell down unconscious.

Coil got to his feet, ignoring the pain. Where had the bullet come from? Then he saw, on an adjacent building, a small figure on the rooftop. A human sniper had saved his life. Dumb gratitude rushes through him-and an overwhelming shame. Vine would know, if he was watching. He would be ostracized by his fellow Ossoonas. Yet, he refocused.

The Brute leader was practically tearing his beard out at this development. He snarled as another shot grazed his armor's shields, and pushed the drivers away, manning the console. "Keep him busy, fools!" The remaining pair of aliens drew their rifles, just as the spider began moving. Up. Away.

Coil yelped as the entire spider turned vertical, and he began to fall. One of his flailing hands caught the back railing, and he clutched it with a demented strength. The roaring noise of the spider's motor filled his ears. His legs dangled. The Brutes were far luckier-they clung to the overhead railing and planted their feet on the deck. Another shot from the sniper bounced off the railing and crashed through a window.

As they ascended the building, heading for the roof, one of the Brutes cautiously removed a hand and went for his spiker that had been dropped on the floor. After a few tries, he gripped it and brought it up. Its eyes were alight with a malicious glee. Coil was helpless. Soon a volley of spikes would slash through his fingers and send him to his death.

There was still the sniper. Perhaps he would avenge him. Perhaps he could do better than that-no, he quashed that thought. That way lay madness and dishonour. The Ossoonas were aloof and isolated. Always alone. But that was nothing new, was it? Born fatherless, his mother a whore, leaving him _alone _on the streets of the city-

_What do I have to lose?_

As this cold, clear thought went through his head, Coil twisted his head to face the sniper, sucked in a large breath and roared, "HELP ME!"

Horatio winced as he heard the Elite's cry wing towards him. That was asking too much. Damnit, this was not the way he was supposed to behave. He'd already done enough. He'd never be able to look himself in the mirror again. It was wrong. He gripped his sniper rifle tightly. How was he supposed to help anyway? He wasn't good enough to hit the Brutes. He couldn't make it over anyway…

His eyes went to the magnetic zip-line. The controls glowed yellow. The system was active. The thought that arrived next he quickly dismissed. It was insane. It would get him killed.

He watched the Elite, a fellow soldier, struggle helplessly as the Brute lined up his shot.

_Double shit._

He groaned in frustration, and, with a backdrop of never-ending curses, ran over to the zipline, jammed the middle of his sniper rifle into the clamps, and, holding onto it with two hands, kicked the activation button.

Coil felt despair. His plea had gone unnoticed. Not only would he die, his name would be stricken from the Ossoona Archive. No-one would remember that he existed. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. If he was going to die, he would try and achieve some redemption. Staring his enemy in the face.

Then he heard a strange whizzing noise, like a cloud of hornets. Perhaps his brain was turning on him, in these final moments. But the Brute seemed to notice it too. It frowned, and looked around. Then up.

Coil was shocked as he saw the sniper, a tall man with dark skin, fall from the sky and pulp the alien's face with his cleated boots. The alien screamed, clutching at his face, while the human stood on a metal spar, clinging to it with one hand and holding his weapon in the other. He shot the Brute through the chest, then tried to do the same to the second Brute. It leaned to one side, dodged the bullet, and fired back.

The marine growled in frustration as the spikes grazed his side, drawing blood. He fell down, landing on the deck, and began sliding down. He would have joined Coil if he had not jammed the barrel of his weapon into a spoke and hung there in midair. Unfazed by this, his hands went to his belt, drawing out a plasma pistol. He began charging it.

Coil felt sorrow shoot through him. He would not win with a simple weapon such as that. The human's brave sacrifice would be for nothing. The ball of plasma was released, and it shot past the Brute, missing it.

It instead hit a bar of metal, melting it. After a few seconds, it snapped and tumbled towards the Brute, who tried to cover himself but was crushed by the falling girder. Blood oozed onto the grey metal. Coil hardly believed it-it was a feat worthy of an Ossoona.

The sniper turned, grimaced, and reached out a hand to help him up. Coil accepted it-noting the strong grip the human possessed. "Your arrival is most timely, human."

The marine shrugged indifferently. "Just here to kill Brutes, "he muttered. "You nearly had that." A grudging respect was in his voice.

Just then, their surroundings righted, and Coil realised they were climbing onto the rooftop. "We must-"

The construct squealed as the integrity of their back legs gave way. Magnetic coils burnt out, ridged spines snapped. The entire frame began to buckle. "Look out!" the marine yelled, diving to one side.

The caged frame broke, and bounced off the deck, eventually plummeting straight down. A nasty chunk of it fell on Coil's leg, crushing it. He roared in agony. He tried standing on it, and the pain made him black out for a few seconds. When he came to, he was lying on the deck, with the human standing over him.

The spider was now on the roof, gazing out on everything that lay beyond. They were now level, but the Brute leader was still armed and uninjured. One wounded Elite and a human marine-not exactly a winning combination.

The marine pulled out a strange looking bandage from his pack. "It's filled with biofoam, "he told Coil. "Wrap it tight." He then grabbed his sniper rifle, and unloaded in the direction of the final Jiralhanae.

Shields flickered, but the simian warrior was unharmed. It laughed, and fired a grenade from its launcher. It narrowly missed the marine, who cursed and ducked behind cover. "Run and hide, human, "it brayed. "I will take your scalp, and that of the Skulker." It began moving forward. Suddenly, Coil knew what he had to do. Wrapping the bandage, he felt a terrible prickling sensation in his marrow, then relief. He stood shakily, and his leg held. "Human."

The marine glanced at him. "What?" he hissed, trying to listen to the advancing Brute.

Coil looked around and found his _neska,_ which he'd dropped. "I will fight this battle. I must do this. You will not understand. It is for honour-"

The human snorted. "Oh, Elite honour? Don't get me started." He raised his rifle and fired another shot.

Coil grabbed his arm and gazed into his eyes. "If I do not have this, I will be shamed. Forgotten forever. Please. You must leave. I would not have you die on my account."

Although there was contempt in the man's eyes, there was also understanding-and sympathy. He nodded stiffly. "Alright then. Have it your way. How are you gonna fight that bastard anyway?"

"Allow me to worry about that. Now go. Join your comrades." Coil stood up, in full view. The Brute spotted him and began firing. He threw himself to the side just as three grenades blew a massive divot in the deck. The human leapt over the side and began running. "Wait!" Coil called.

The marine turned. "What?" There was no rancor in his voice.

The Ossoona tossed his _neska _at the man's feet. "Take it. Learn its ways. Show it to my comrades. They will understand."

"OK." The man looked uncertain, and, before turning away, asked, "What's your name?"

_Coil. _"Jild, "he said huskily. "Jild Ulamor'." _Old name discarded. As they demanded. For those of my standing. Well, I spit in your face, tradition._

He nodded, picked up the energy whip and then ran for a set of stairs. In a few seconds he was gone. Now he could fight. Concern for safety was over.

He reached up to his neck, pushed the seal and pulled his helmet off. He let it fall to the deck, tasted the fresh air with his mandibles. A moment later, he undid his arm padding, exposing his slender forearms. Rolling his head, he gave a grunt. From his belt, he pulled out his last weapon-a simple knife, made of burnished steel.

These weapons were the Ossoonas last resort-not just to kill, but to take their own lives if necessary. He would not be doing that, however. He would die fighting, and regain honour. His opponent, seeing him, raised the weapon and fired again.

Coil sprang into the air, jumped over the grenade and slammed into the Brute. Together, they crashed to the deck. Coil made to slit his throat, but the animal tucked its chin in, and smashed a fist into his shoulder, sending him back a few paces. Shaking its head, the Brute stood back up, going for its weapon.

Coil threw the knife, and it sank into the alien's outstretched hand. Roaring in pain, it yanked the blade out and charged headlong at the Ossoona. Coil tried to sidestep, but its right arm collided with him and knocked him down. The Brute's momentum carried it all the way to the back railing, nearly falling off. As it pulled itself back up, Coil arrived on the scene.

He dealt a swift kick to the Brute's back, and bent its arm around a coil of metal. It shrieked, but then he was rewarded with a _snap_, and the arm broke. In a fury, the alien twisted and crunched him in the face. Lights and colours flashed through his brain, and the Brute was upon him.

A heavy foot slammed into him, lifting the Elite off his feet and thudding to the deck, with the massive hole behind his head. Torn metal curled away, sharp enough to tear skin. The Brute dived on him, and tried to force his head onto a vicious-looking spike. Spittle ran from its mouth and sizzled on his shields.

Coil struggled, but felt exhaustion and pain sap his limbs. He had no fight left.

Then the Brute shifted, and stabbing pain went through his injured leg. He remembered that they were there, and summoned the last of his strength.

He kicked upwards (and he felt his calf muscle tear), and the impetus of this caused the alien to fly forwards, landing with a smack on the console. Suddenly, the spider began moving. Backwards. Coil smiled, and tried to move, when he realised something was poking him in the head.

He brought trembling hands around, and found a spike of metal jutting from his skull. So the Brute had succeeded. He had perhaps seconds left, before he fell. He saw the Brute trying to escape, and snarled. He hobbled over.

Just as the alien set a hand on the railing, Coil closed his hands around its arms in a death grip. It roared, and strained, but could not break free. Coil smiled again, through bloody mandibles. He could not feel his legs anymore. But that was fine. He would not need them.

He would die redeemed. And was that not what he had been searching for, all this time? An escape from the shroud of dishonour.

_Clarity before death. How amusing._

He had time for one last bark of laughter before the spider fell off the roof, through the air, and hit the ground, detonating in an earthshaking explosion.

Horatio was nearly on the ground when he heard the explosion. He quickened his pace, jumping the stairs three at a time.

When he arrived on the street, he saw a charred wreck of twisted metal. Small spot-fires burned here and there, with a bigger one blazing at the heart of the wreckage. The statue of Gethrii had snapped, and the globe was rolling away, until it came to a stop. Foul smoke billowed. He heard a noise and turned.

An Elite shimmered into view, flanked by two of its comrades. It looked down at him with a cold regard. "Where is Coil? The Ossoona."

Silently, the marine drew out the _neska _from his belt. All three Elites gave a sharp intake of breath. "He gave me this. Before he died."

"How?" barked one.

Horatio shrugged. "He told me to run. Said it was his fight." He tensed, his hand moving down to his sidearm. You could never tell.

The middle Elite-Vine?-swept a hand over his eyes, and screwed up his face in a grimace. "This one has been granted the weapon of an Ossoona,"he said harshly. "Honour him as our own." He bashed a fist against his breast, as did the other two.

Horatio sighed, walked over to the plinth and sat down. Now he'd gotten in too deep with these aliens. _I told you, didn't I?_

As he heard the sounds of the marines approaching, his gaze went to the main building, and he wondered what they would find.


	15. Chapter 14

*Chapter Thirteen

EARTH TIME: 19th of October, 2553

UNSC Forward Base _Sentinel_

Gethrii

Mission Clock: 1805

Massad's face was beetroot red as he surveyed the Elite, Vine, with rage. "And what kind of support do you call this, split-chin? You and your boys have got a lot to answer for. Slinking off like a couple of mongrel dogs, while we were getting chewed up by the Covenant. So much for fuckin' Elite honour-"

"For your information, _human, _"Vine snarled, hands clenching and unclenching, "we Ossoona were masterminding the downfall of the Jiralhanae construct. It is hardly fair to apportion blame to us when your soldiers ducked and whimpered in the streets-"

"Which is exactly why we needed you to stay!" Massad almost screamed. "Allah above, we ain't a team of supermen. You of all people should know that. It's common sense, damnit." Behind him, the surviving marines made noises of agreement, casting ugly looks in Vine's direction.

Vine folded his arms, eyes like daggers. "I make no apology. If you are unable to fight your own battles, then so be it." He turned his back.

Massad cast a murderous glance at the pompous Ossoona. "Fine then. Just don't run off again or we'll mete out some payback for chickening out. _Freak._"

The gangly Elite whirled so quickly the air whistled. "What did you just say?" The energy sword was in his hand almost immediately, and he took a step towards Massad, who looked totally unafraid. "I just called you a freak. You need subtitles or something?"

Vine snarled again and stepped forward, arm swinging back.

"No!" a voice snapped, and everyone turned to see Horatio Zerba stand up, and glare at both parties. "Shut up and keep your opinions to yourself-uh, Sergeant." He flushed, and a few marines chuckled. He then rounded on Vine. "And you. You might think you're cock of the walk, but the reality is nobody gives a good damn. Focus on fighting the Covenant, and not on your own personal glory. Capeesh?"

The Sangheili thrust his rather unattractive face into Horatio's. "Careful, human, or I might decide to-

With a dreadful smirk upon his tanned face, Horatio pulled the _neska _from his belt and waved it about. "I've got as much a right to say anything as you do. I'm your sworn brother or something now, right? And I don't think your friends will take too kindly to any monkey business." The other Elites shifted uncomfortably, making it obvious that this was the case.

Vine looked as though he would like nothing better than to strike Horatio across the face. After a few seconds, he visibly composed himself and then grated, "Right."

"Good. Then pull your head in." He turned, and saluted Massad. "Orders, Sergeant?"

The Arabic man looked stunned by Horatio's rant, then his face broke into a wide smile. "Well said, Private. Consider my mouth shut. Now then, marines and…allies." He cast one final dirty look at Vine, who vibrated with rage. "The Covenant garrison here has been broken, but it's not over. Vedrich?"

A beanpole of a man with dark eyebrows and a Texas drawl nodded stiffly. "I spotted more'n a few alien sumbitches running inside the main building, not long afore the spider got blown to high heaven. They'll be well dug in now."

Massad clapped the man on the shoulder. "There you have it. Now then, I hear that the Elite support is still some time away, and securing the main building is essential. I'm not particularly interested in losing more men to a handful of the bastards. So, time for an encore performance, boys. The majority of you stay put and a couple of us will head inside, flush 'em out. That includes _you."_ This last comment was to Vine, who jerked a brief nod.

"Wait for the rest of the boys to arrive, "he continued. "Then establish a perimeter around the compound. Nothing gets in or out. Once we're done, we wait. Then join the main game." The marines sounded off a chorus of "Yeahs" and "All rights". Even the Elites looked a little relieved.

Massad scratched his chin. "Now, lessee. I fancy…Vedrich, Orville, Akiro, Dean, Hurley…oh, and you Zerba."

Horatio had had his fingers crossed, and then silently cursed. "Do I have-"

"Yes you do, Private." Massad's tone was firm. The sniper sighed, and ran a hand down his cheek. It always seemed to be the desire of any sergeant to make his life hell. The rest of his squad seemed to think it was funny. _I'm not sure who's worse, Massad or Kyle._

"You all got eight minutes. Scrounge what you can and get to work."

Unopposed, the marines picked their way through the rubble and the streets, searching for weapons and ammunition. Covenant arms littered the base in droves, but there were precious few intact, reliable human weapons to be found. Sadly, most of those that were found were accompanied by the bodies of base personnel. It seemed that the Covenant assault had been short, sharp and bloody. No survivors were found.

Out the front gates of the main building, they came and went, bearing armfuls of whatever they could find. Rifles, pistols, headsets, medical supplies, small crates of grenades, helmets, dog tags, flares, you name it-they began to form a pile at Massad's feet.

Horatio and Dean had found a collapsible tripod-mounted TW-573, a scatter gun used for skirmishes. It was too heavy to carry around, but would be a handy addition to the trove. Grunting, they hefted it from its resting place below an awning and slowly moved off towards the deposit. "Tell me, Dean, "Horatio wheezed from between gritted teeth, "did you sign up to carry about a big-ass machine gun?"

"Can't say it was in my mind at the time, "the Canadian marine remarked. "I signed up for different reasons."

"Example?"

Dean was silent for a few moments, then said, in a monotone, "My folks died."

At first, Horatio felt nothing. He had met, talked and fought with so many who'd lost family to the enemy, it was hardly a surprise. But, realizing such an offhand reaction would be insensitive, he jerked to a stop, eliciting a frustrated curse from Dean. After a moment, he shouldered the turret again and asked levelly, "How did it happen?"

At first, Horatio thought Dean was going to tell him to shove off. But he began to talk.

"I was about fifteen when the Covenant showed up at Lapris XII. You heard of it?" Horatio shook his head. "Beautiful spot. Warm weather, all year round. Just about as far out from the Outer Colonies as possible. None of that industrial shit. Just lots of little rural communities. Didn't have much approaching a government, or a military. That's probably why we fell so quickly."

A smile had been detectable in his voice thus far, but it dropped away now, replaced by an angry sadness. "Four ships. Four. That's all they had, the bastards, and after three days the river, the forests, the bays were gone. Just molten glass. And most of the planet's population."

Horatio struggled to find his voice. "Were-were your parents among them?"

Dean sighed, shaking his head. "They were on the last transport out. There was a cruiser, bearing straight down on them. Just then, its shields went down. No idea why. Could've been EMP, maybe a malfunction. Anyway, a couple of defense fighters slipped some Archers through. They struck a plasma line, and the whole thing started burning up like a torch. For a moment…it looked like things would be OK."

The emotion had gone out of Dean's voice. It may as well have been a robot speaking. He drew a shaky breath, and then continued.

"The cruiser started charging its Slipspace drive. It was completely unexpected. The captain knew what was gonna happen, before anyone else. He ordered everyone to the escape pods. I didn't want to get on, but my parents forced me. They told me things would be fine." He barked a cynical laugh. "Didn't fool anyone."

The cruiser jumped. The transport got sucked into the rift, but since it didn't have an active drive…"

Horatio listened sympathetically. He knew what is was like to lose everything at once, and then be made an orphan. "I'm sorry, man. I went through the same thing, on Madrigal."

"Ah." Dean looked as though for a second he would become quiet, but then the words broke through in a flood.

"I'm sure you signed up as soon as you could. I didn't do that. I pottered around for months, just thinking, wondering, what my parents would want. Tore myself to pieces about it, even saw a psychiatrist once or twice. Eventually I realised. I could sit around and think myself to death, while more worlds out in the black got destroyed. Damn selfish is what it was."

"No, "Horatio protested. "Dean, you were just a teenager-"

"Don't try and rationalise it, Horatio. I was old enough to think for myself, and I spent most of it doing shit. That's my fault, and my burden to lift. Deal with it." He fell silent once more, while Horatio steamed quietly at his friend's stubbornness. He had been assailed by grief, yes-but he had been old enough to accept it was not his fault. _Not that it did me any good._ Memories haunted him, but he banished them quickly. A practiced motion by now.

Eventually, the pair returned to the gates, where the rest of the hand-picked team waited. Massad inspected their find with satisfaction. "Nice job, boys. This'll go well with the perimeter defenses. Right, take your pick of weapons-I want us as primed as we've ever been."

Gratefully, the seven-strong group shed their old, battered weapons and rummaged through the treasure trove. Orville dragged forth a fuel rod gun, shouldering it with a grunt. It only had five rounds, however-he would have to conserve the ammo. Dean kept his rifle, but grabbed a plasma pistol and flicked it onto the highest setting. Horatio threw away his near-empty assault rifle, and looked for a replacement.

A likely looking weapon caught his eye. At first, he thought it was a carbine, but it was actually quite different. It had a grey, snub-nosed barrel, a humped purple scope and several emerald quills projected outward. He waved it around in confusion. "What the hell is this?"

"Looks like a needler, "Akiro remarked. "But different."

"I'll say." He sighted through the scope, and saw a purple field of vision, and strange Covenant icons. He selected a wall, and pulled the trigger. Immediately, his arm jerked back as several huge needle bolts ejected out of the end and thudded into the concrete wall, sending microshrapnel everywhere. He looked up from the scope with awe. "Now _that's _more like it. I always thought the needlers were lacking punch."

"Enjoy your new toy, Zerba-just don't forget you're a sniper, "Massad declared. "Right, now collect equipment. Akiro, take the medi-kits, Hurley the grenades, Dean, grab some extra radios. We could use them if the satellite array fixes itself." The marines bent down again to scavenge items.

The rasp of armor was heard, and the three Elites appeared from an alleyway. They were carrying no new weapons. Vine grunted. "We are ready. Our fighters will remain on station and monitor the surrounding area."

"Good to hear, "Massad said politely. "We're about to head in, so-"

"Where did you get that?" One of the Ossoonas pointed at the strange new weapon that Horatio was holding. He looked startled, then said, "Found it on one of the bodies. You know what it is?"

"It is a needle rifle, "the alien rumbled. "I had not expected to see one of them again. They were only used on Reach, and even then…" He lapsed into silence.

There were a few seconds of awkward silence, then Orville beat a hand upon the fuel rod gun's casing. "Enough jibber-jabber. I'm ready t'pound some Covenant uglies with this, and I intend to do it today." The marines whooped and clapped this admission. The Elites just scowled.

Massad slapped a clip into his MA5K, holstered the grenade launcher at his hip and faced the massive black building's doors. "Lock and load, marines. It's time to liberate this joint."

Quietly, the seven marines and three Elites moved into the shadow of the compound. Meanwhile, the remaining marines-about forty in total, their numbers swelled by the new arrivals-split up, grabbing the weapons and setting up shop around the building, ready to defend it if need be.

Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

The Elites set hooked fingers to the powerless main doors and pulled them aside, grunting with the effort. Making quick hand signals, Massad directed Akiro and Hurley through the opening. After a few moments, the others followed.

No gunfire awaited them in the cavernous lobby. A main reception occupied the centre of the room, with plexiglass walls and filled with desks, paperwork and other bureaucratic miscellany. Ornamental pots filled with tough desert ferns and leathery wildflowers lined the walls. High above on the vaulting ceiling, the symbol of the UNSCDF glared down, inside a gold-rimmed circle. Mounted on the far wall was a base directory terminal-that would come in useful. Numerous doors led out of the main room and into other parts of the base.

Scattered around the room were men and women clad in the red and white fatigues of Military Police. Some looked as though they hadn't had the chance to fire their weapons before dying. Others were bloodstained and clenched empty firearms in their hands. At one door, red blood tracked along the floor, indicating there had perhaps been survivors. Oddly enough, some bore strange looking cuts. Some sort of new weapon?

Massad gave the room a scowl-he had a pet hate for large, quiet rooms. "Cover the doors, men, "he ordered tersely. "Vedrich, come with me." He walked around the reception and headed for the terminal. The Elites gazed about, taking in the scenery. They seemed to be hesitating-as if waiting to confirm something before proceeding further. One sniffed the air deeply.

A coarse bark was heard, and all eyes snapped to one side of the room. A Brute, with ragged bullet holes in its shoulder and a limp, made a mad dash across the room, plasma rifle up and firing. It must have been hiding in the shadows. The marines took cover, with Massad shouting, "Take it down!"

Horatio found that he was the only one with a clear line of sight. He had no time to switch to his sniper rifle, so he brought up the needler rifle instead and jammed down on the trigger. Pink shards spat forth, and stuck fast in the alien's back. It roared in pain, but kept moving, eventually disappearing through a door. This promptly slammed shut, the light above it flashing red. The door was solid titanium-impenetrable to grenades or gunfire.

Massad pounded on the door in impotent fury. "Get this door open-we can't let it spread the word!"

"Save your strength, human. The wretch is long gone." This was from Vine, who went to scrutinise the terminal with intense concentration. The burly sergeant growled, but joined him. The other marines stepped out and once again trained their guns on the doors. The other Elites milled around, as if waiting for instructions.

The terminal's screen was cracked and damaged, but the power was still on. A blaring azure light shone from its insides, painting everyone's faces a ghostly blue. Massad tapped the screen. "If I'm reading this right, the Communications Centre isn't far from here. Just head through one of these doors and take a couple of lefts-"

"Unfortunately, "Vine interrupted, "it would appear that the door in question is the locked one." There was a loud chorus of groans. "But there is always an alternative. We must keep looking."

Massad sighed in frustration. "I haven't used one of these in God knows how long. Hell if I know what I'm doing. Someone else take over."

"I'll do it, "Orville volunteered, setting down his heavy cannon and leaning over the keyboard. The minutes ticked by, as the heavy weapons man uttered occasional sounds of pleasure-that were quickly followed by annoyed "tsks." He started to draw a path, tapping certain buttons in order to block off unwanted pathways.

Suddenly he cried out. "Gotcha! Sir, if we take this course-"he used his finger to highlight a course through the layered schematic through the complex-"then we'll not be far. Plus, that side of the base ain't locked down-and according to this, most of it is."

Massad scratched his bristly chin thoughtfully. "Meaning that there could be some base personnel still alive. Walk me through it."

"Swing by Firing Range T-3, "Orville replied. "Then cut through ventilation shafts 11 and 4. From there we should be able to find the array."

"Good." Massad switched off the terminal. "Lead the way, private." Orville selected a doorway, and it opened with a _snik._ Quietly, they filed through. Vine was the last, and he gave the room a suspicious stare. "I smell…something, "he muttered, then turned away.

Seconds after they did, a hunched shape peeled away from the darkness of the rafters and flitted down to the ground. It was insectile, like a Drone, but different. Instead of a grey-green shell, it was milky white with blue streaks. It also had slimy tentacles protruding from its back, that squirmed and coiled like eels. It was by these that the creature had managed to stay hidden on the ceiling.

Twitching, it slithered forward on shapeless feet, and breathed in the scent of the humans who had just left the room. Compound eyes surveyed the door in a hundred different colours. Pulses of consciousness rippled through the aether, and the creature fastened onto them. After a few seconds it snorted, and shook saliva and mucus everywhere. It had what it needed.

Its loyalty had been bred into it first and foremost to the masters, long ago. But they were gone, and the creature had a binding connection to its brothers, and to the Broodmother. The intruders would be passing through the nest. Such temerity was answerable only by punishment.

It clicked, rattling its carapace. Using its tentacles, it latched onto the titanium beams, swung up near the ceiling and wriggled through a small vent.

Mission Clock: 1810

As soon as they passed through the door, they were greeted by a long corridor, sloping downward. Maintenance pathways cropped up every now and then, steel mesh doors leading into darkness. It made a sharp right at the end. Massad motioned for quiet, and the group endeavoured to be as silent as possible.

When they reached the end, Vine halted them and drew a fibre optic from his harness. Poking it around the corner, he nodded grimly. "Brutes and other races, sixty paces ahead. They are not yet aware."

"Lucky us, "Massad remarked. "Zerba, you take the first shot-on the leader. Elites, focus on the Brutes. We'll handle the rest." Horatio holstered his needle rifle, pulled the sniper from his back and peered around the corner. About ten or twelve Covenant had their backs to them, facing a large sealed door. They were flanked by two plasma turrets that pointed in the same way.

The Brute in charge was one with red armor-for some reason, it had no helmet. Looking through the scope, Horatio could see vicious claw marks and blood-matted hair. He frowned, and wondered what had caused that. Lining up the reticule, he fired, removing a third of the captain's skull.

The alien soldiers gasped, and turned-to an outpouring of gunfire. Vine fired from his arm-launcher, taking down several puny Jackals. Orville sent a single, glowing explosive round and blew most of them to bits. Disciplined rifle fire from the others took the last of them down. It had lasted eight seconds.

They strode forward, kicking the bodies to make sure they were dead. "Pretty sloppy of them, "Dean remarked. "You would have thought they'd have been more vigilant."

"Maybe they didn't know we were here, "interjected another marine.

"How could they not?" Dean argued. "The Brute was obviously running to tell. And why the hell were they facing this door anyway? What's so important?"

"Stow the chitchat, fools, "Massad snapped. "There could be a whole army waiting on the other side-you'll find out real quick then. Let's get this thing open. Vine, you go first." The Elite curled his lip, but stood ready. Massad palmed the switch, and it opened. Vine dived forward and rolled, settling into a crouch. His eyes widened in disbelief. "Gods below, "he whispered.

The firing range was a boxy sort of room, large but enclosed. Every space was taken up. Twenty different cages were aligned side by side, elongated and ending in a black-and-white pin-up of various Covenant races. Racks of practice weapons were lined up on the walls. Large cubicles were set up for heavy weapons training. This however, was not the defining feature of the room.

It was the innumerable bodies, both human and Covenant, sprawled in almost every conceivable position of death.

Here and there, large piles of bodies were stacked-as if by plague workers. Blood-red, luminous blue, milky purple, black-it was slicked on the walls and floor in copious amounts. The bodies were similarly varied; Brutes were just as common as Grunts, and battle-hardened marines rubbed shoulders with administrators. Vine, experienced as he was, had trouble keeping his rations down as he gazed at the macabre scene. Throats had been slashed, chests torn open, limbs brutally smashed-the smell of rot was already beginning to permeate the air.

It was not just organic mess-wall fittings had been torn from their hinges, pipes dangled uselessly, and cracked lights flickered.

Silently, the others filed into the room. "Mother of God, "Orville muttered, and turned away to retch. Massad's mouth was a grim slash.

Horatio voiced what they were all thinking. "The Covenant didn't do this."

"Absolutely not." Vine leant down and turned over the body of a Jackal. The alien's mouth bore an agonised snarl. "You can see very few bullet wounds on this one. Mostly visceral wounds. The evisceration is undoubtedly from claws and teeth, but I cannot identify…" His voice trailed off, and he straightened.

"Whoever it was that did this, was no friend to either side. It is highly likely they are still inside the base."

"Of course!" Massad snapped his fingers. "The Covies at the door. They must have been guarding it. In case they came back."

Horatio swallowed. "And they might just do that. Sir-advise that we bug out. Elite support will be arriving soon."

The master sergeant shook his head. "We'll take our chances, private. We have to get the word out there about what happened, so no more poor bastards fall into the same trap."

Horatio was still willing to argue the point. "Sir, take a look around. Whoever did this killed at least thirty-without weapons! Just claws and teeth. Hell, I can even spot some Hunters over there, ripped to chunks. Think about it, Sarge. It's not worth it."

Surprisingly, Massad seemed to consider this. "You have a point. Right, we'll find out what we're up against first. The cameras must have recorded something. Vine, keep looking at these wounds-try and jog your memory. Everyone else, sweep the area for anything important or useful. And above all, _don't wander off._ The last thing I need is for anyone to get lynched by a couple of mutated wolverines or whatever the hell was responsible." He moved off, looking for a security camera or another form of recording device. Vedrich went with him.

Horatio strolled amongst the bodies, shaking his head over the amount of carnage in the room. After becoming inured to the sight of blood, gore and devastated bodies, he began to pick out tell-tale signs; serrated teeth marks on a man's neck, wounds that seemed to have been inflicted by a whip-like weapon, and here and there, flecks of milky white blood. He bent down, scooped some on one finger and sniffed it.

A mental blast hammered him behind the eyes, and he staggered backwards. Jags of light and colour swirled in his vision. He was completely disorientated, and he collapsed with a thud. He heard a shout of alarm, and the sound of running feet.

Somebody-Dean?-helped him to his feet. "Are you OK, man?"

Eventually the fugue faded, and he took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah-yeah, I'm fine. It's just that this stuff…" He waved around his stained finger. "I just took a sniff and it happened."

Dean grinned mockingly. "Sniffing strange things? Never a good idea." He inhaled the smell from the white liquid, and blanched, his eyes glazing over. "Christ, that's bad. I-" He hiccoughed, and spat hastily.

The others took notice. "What's going on?" Hurley asked, walking over. They explained the strange substance and what had happened to them.

Hurley nodded thoughtfully. "We've found some more of that stuff splashed here and there. There's a big trail of it on the wall." He pointed, and they saw an alabaster streak on the far wall, leading into an air vent. Horatio shrugged. "At least we know whatever these things are can bleed."

"We know slightly more, "a voice said, and they saw Vine stride over to them. His eyes were filled with consternation.

"I have analysed some of the wounds inflicted on the dead, and they all seem to be more or less similar. The creatures fling themselves at their victims, biting and clawing deep. Then some sort of…._appendage_…attacks, cutting into limbs and nerve centres. Severing locomotion and so forth. It is little wonder many here did were not able to use their weapons." He wiped a smear of blood from his armor. "If I did not know better, it is almost like the work of Yanme'e. The cuts are certainly similar."

A door creaked open, and all heads turned. Rifles were aimed, only to be lowered as Massad and Vedrich entered the room, their faces grim. The sergeant held up a small black case. "We found this in one of the recording booths. It's not pretty."

Marching over to a holo-projector used for showing examples of fighting and marksmanship, he slotted the case in and stepped back. After a muted hiss, the projector flickered to life and began playing.

At first, it was an empty hallway showing. Ghostly numbers, showing a date stamp, glowed at the bottom of the hologram. Massad fast-forwarded it, showing-over the course of days-naval personnel and marines walking, then firefights between Covenant and humans, and then nothing.

It slowed to normal speed, and suddenly, there were cries of fear, and scattered gunfire. And underlying it all, a manic, insidious chirping, like the noise of a demented squirrel. It raised hairs on the back of Horatio's neck. It was higher than a Grunt's voice, but lower than a Drone's.

Two marines entered the footage, both stumbling and wounded. One threw down his rifle with a sob and cradled his head in his hands. "Oh God, I can't take this man! The noise, fuck, the noise…no more! I'm not moving, I'm staying right here-"

The other marine pulled him to his feet. "Snap out of it, soldier! These things can't be allowed to push through this section. Five more minutes, you hear, then we pull out. Jamison says they've nearly locked down this section. Come on, get your weapon and cover that-"

An explosion rocked the corridor, and both marines flinched. "What the hell was that?" the first one asked, the hush of fear underlying his voice.

"I don't know…" The second one aimed his MA5C rifle down the corridor, fired a burst and was rewarded with a snarl of pain. He looked behind himself quickly. "Go secure the next-"

Something white and horrible appeared, moving so quickly it appeared to be gliding. It resembled an insect, but was more humanoid. Throwing itself at the marine, it opened its mouth, revealing dozens of razor, stiletto-like teeth and sank them into the marine's neck. Screaming, he pawed at the creature's body, but it was clinging determinedly to him. Grotesque tentacles writhed on its back, and these stretched out to cut deeply into the poor man's arms and legs. The second marine cried out in terror and fled for his life.

After the first man's wails rose to a piercing shriek, his throat was ripped open and he fell, the life rushing from his body. The thing hissed with pleasure, twitched, and moved out of sight, pursuing the second man. The hologram faded away.

Somehow, this short film had shocked them even more than discovering the room of bodies had. Massad stared Vine in the face, expressionless. "Well?"

The Elite was, for lack of a better term, gob smacked. "Of course!" he breathed. "Their physiology, their gait…it all makes sense. The wounds they inflict-all becomes clear-"

"But _not_, "Massad said harshly, "what in the name of Allah's hairy ass that thing was. Don't you have an inkling of an idea? You're the alien, after all."

Vine shook his head haughtily. "I do not. They resemble several carvings I have seen in scriptures, of the Yanme'e before the formation of the Covenant. But nothing like these creatures I have seen."

Massad set his jaw. "That settles it. We can't leave yet. We need to get the message out, and request that the base be destroyed."

"_Destroyed?" _they all exclaimed. "Why?"

The sergeant glared at them all. "Would you rather leave this whole facility crawling with the bastards? We'd need an army to root them out, and the Covenant are knocking on the door, for those of you with temporary amnesia. Command will back me up, just wait and see. In any case, they need to be informed, which means we _are_ going in."

"It's suicide, "Orville bluntly opined, and a few of the others agreed. Massad pasted an evil grin on his face. "Is that so? Well, here's part two of our little expose." He pulled out another case, exchanged it with the first and stepped back.

This footage showed the room they were standing in-only it was not as damaged. The date stamp was earlier than the first video, and the bodies of Covenant and human were still strewn around the room, but not in piles. A few human survivors walked around, securing weapons and ammo.

Suddenly, there was a loud clang, and an access panel on the wall dented severely. The marines snapped to focus on the panel, which continued to suffer dents from the other side. Finally, it broke free from the wall, and a stream of the white creatures emerged.

Shouts of shock and surprise echoed around the room as the paltry group of soldiers opened fire. Bullets slammed into the swarm, and broke through their carapaces with relative ease. These ones screeched with pain as they flopped to the ground, blue blood spilling from the wounds. The marines watched the hologram with interest-the unknown aliens seemed mortal after all.

Eventually, though, the white insects were too many, and they overwhelmed the marines, cutting them down where they stood. They emitted sounds of triumph, and began dragging the bodies into piles. Evidently they were studious creatures. One broke off from the rest and clamped its mouth on the arm of a Grunt, and gnawed it furiously until blood spilled. It slurped this up, and then waddled away. Horatio frowned. _What was that for?_

There was nothing else worth showing, so Massad cut the recording short. "There you have it, marines. These things can be killed, and we know what we're fighting better than any of our predecessors. That being said, let's not linger here any longer than we have to." There was a note of finality in his voice. "Vine, you have the point. Let's move out." He headed for a door in the corner of the room.

The marines, now vigilant to the point of fear, walked through, hands tight on weapons. Horatio cast one last, uneasy look at the shooting range, and followed them. Heading into God knew what.

Snug inside the conduit, the creature peered through a slitted grate at the group of intruders. The dimness and the grate obscured its vision, but it didn't matter. It switched to a higher plane of sight, and the walls became ethereal, while the forms of the other creatures sharpened. It could see the beating of their hearts, and the rich blood rushing through their veins. The creature resisted the urge to burst through at them-it would be suicide.

Now that it had time, it scrutinised the invaders more closely. The pink, fleshy ones clad in green were known to it. But the taller, saurian aliens-they were a mystery. It gave an ultrasonic whistle of confusion, and referred back to the hive consciousness. They were also stumped. Disconcerting.

Its compound eyes narrowed as the flickering hologram appeared. They knew, then-though they couldn't possibly remain ignorant, surrounded by the bodies of other intruders. The hive would be ready.

The group departed through a door, and the creature began squirming back the way it had came.

There was one more thing-something that the insect had quickly dismissed. Two of the pink intruders were….different. Its sense of their blood, their vitality, was muted. It was probably nothing.

Mission Clock: 1817

"Keep going…keep going, "Orville chanted under his breath, his face glued to a small data pad clenched in his fist. They were heading through a series of rooms, all with a small, cylindrical dynamo at their centre. Behind him, the others followed drearily, like an unenthusiastic crowd of paparazzi. The Elites were forced to duck their heads under the low ceiling. There was smell of rust in the air.

Massad was tapping a nervous beat on his gun. The waiting was taking a toll on them all. "Found it yet, Orville? Or should we just pick numbers out of a hat?"

"Give us a break, Sarge, "the big man grumbled, oblivious to the glare Massad cast him. After a few seconds he pointed at a wall ahead and said, "Should be there somewhere."

"Oh, that helps."

They all moved forward, inspecting the wall for any distinguishing marks. Horatio ran his hands along the smooth metal, and stopped when he felt a bumpy part. "Here! I think this part's been welded on. The grate used to be here." He tapped the partition, and sure enough, a hollow clang sounded back.

Massad rounded on Orville. "I thought you said it was here?"

"I said we had to cut through it, "the marine retorted. "Didn't I?"

The sergeant screwed up his face. "Erm…Vine. Would you-"

The Ossoona hissed something under his breath, and drew his energy sword. Setting it to the visible ridges in the wall, he powered it on and slowly sliced through the metal. Drips of molten steel fell and burned into the floor. After about thirty seconds the panel fell to the floor. Inside the newly-revealed shaft, darkness yawned.

They all stared at it for a few seconds, then Massad grunted, withdrew a flare and tossed it through the opening. It crackled with red fluorescence, and revealed a low passage sloping downwards. Heading underground.

"Flashlights on, marines, "the sergeant murmured. "Keep your eyes and ears open, and no talking." The time for casualness was gone. Deadly seriousness had taken its place.

The Elites entered first, crouching down to accommodate themselves in the small space. They shambled forward. The marines, one and all afraid, followed them.

The lights from their helmet-mounted torches illuminated the dark with naked patches of white light. Even then, the blackness lurked around them, like an enemy just waiting to attack. Even if there was anything to see, it was impossible. The sound of their breathing was amplified in the narrow tunnel-collectively, it sounded like a dying wheeze. Fitting, Horatio thought.

Time held no meaning in the dark. It could have been minutes, could have been hours. After what seemed an eternity, the passage leveled out and they halted, shining their lights forward. A dirty plaque on the far wall confirmed their suspicions-they had reached ventilation shaft 11.

Massad slowly, quietly stepped up to the lip of the shaft and looked down. His chestnut-brown face blanched. "Oh boy, "he muttered, in tones of awe and disgust. The others came forward and stared.

The shaft extended downward for about seventy metres. Small ladders bolted into its walls provided a way down. At the bottom, a circular fan churned, sending warm air currents up towards them. Cool amber lights were arranged around the fan. A door was also visible, tucked away in the shadows beyond the fan.

Unfortunately, it was not your run-of-the-mill air shaft. From top to bottom, the walls were absolutely plastered in a strange kind of pulsing biomass. They looked like golden cones, separated into four segments. Elsewhere, small maintenance tunnels in the walls were crammed with what appeared to be lumps of purple fungus. The whole room was filled with the bitter tang of putrefaction. Gingerly, Massad poked some with his knife. It curled up, and contracted itself. He stepped back in revulsion.

Dean broke the disgusted silence. "So….what do we do now?"

"Either become gardeners or leave, "Akiro suggested. He wrinkled his nose at the smell. "Or maybe air scrubbers."

"No." Massad aimed his rifle and clicked off the safety. "Shoot 'em down." He pulled the trigger and a white-hot slash of bullets knifed into the yellow material. Once again, it curled up and retracted back into the wall. When the gunfire ceased, it poked back out again, completely intact. There wasn't even a burn mark. Massad looked incredulous. "This shit's starting to creep me out. Try different projectiles."

Needles, plasma, spikes-none of it had any effect. The tentacles were impervious, and often retreated into the wall to escape prolonged gunfire. Even the energy swords of the Elites had no effect, the tough skin resisting the weapon's bite. There was no solution, it seemed.

The sergeant removed his helmet and scratched his bristly beard for a few seconds, then replaced it. "We have to go down there, "he muttered, looking perplexed. "I'm open to ideas." This was a first-Massad, for all his bluster, often had a good idea of what they were doing.

Horatio began feeling around in the darkness, hands running along the wall. They all turned to look at him. Dean cocked an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"A lot of ventilation shafts in forward command bases are under constant maintenance these days, "came the reply in the dimness. "What with sanitation, vermin, and so forth. Ladders aren't always ship-shape, so they usually have a supply of-aha! Found it." He reached down, pulled out a narrow case from an alcove and busted the lock. Inside were coils of climbing rope and grapnels, glimmering in the light.

"Excellent!" Massad crowed. "Good work, Zerba. Right, find somewhere to lodge these grapnels…"

It took them a few minutes to find viable spots, but they managed it. Once inserted, they tossed the ropes down the shaft, and they dangled twenty metres above the ground. They did not touch the biomass. Horatio bent down, tested the firmness of the ropes and gave the sergeant a thumbs-up.

"Gloves on, all, "Massad instructed, pulling a sheaf of leather from his back pocket. "Right, we'll go down in groups of five. Clip the ropes to your belts. Do it nice and slowly-we haven't got harnesses so if you fall, prepare to become a red stain for the janitors to clean up. Elites, be extra careful, for obvious reasons. If you see something move, shoot it. I don't want to lose anyone. Are we clear?"

"Clear, "they chorused. Pulling on their climbing gloves, they stood ready. The Elites increased shielding to their extremities, and eyed the ropes with anticipation. Horatio clapped his hands together in a matter-of-fact gesture. "Right, "he said. They all looked at each other, all thinking the same thing: _who was going to go first?_

There were a few seconds of silence. Then Massad snorted and said scathingly, "Right. I might be getting older, but that doesn't mean I'm getting stupid. Get your asses up here, or so help me I'll shove you into the walls where you can have a long, in-depth chat with the tentacle-thingamajigs." He patted his rifle for emphasis.

Reluctantly, Horatio, Dean, Akiro and Vine joined the brawny sergeant at the ropes, and grasped them tightly. "Swing out, become still then rappel down, "he ordered. With a _whoosh_, he pushed off the rim of the shaft and out into space. The marines followed. They swung back and forth in space. For a moment, it looked as though Vine would snap the rope. But the material was tough, and held.

Down they went, the rasp of friction bouncing off the walls, surrounded by throbbing biological residue. Their heads turned back and forth, painting it a livid white. Horatio had decided to forgo his sniper rifle or needle rifle-a bulky M6G sidearm more fit the bill. He just hoped the bullets would be able powerful enough to take down the insect creatures. The pistol had always seemed a little weedy to him. He found himself almost missing the battle of New Mombasa. After the orbital elevator collapsed, Horatio's squad had assisted the 26th Guardsmen Unit, a taskforce in charge of safeguarding civilian airships evacuating the city. After an attritional fight lasting hours, punctuated by plasma fire and innumerable dead bodies on both sides, they had been starved of their standard marine weaponry and had been forced to appropriate the militia's. Their automags had been surprisingly meaty. He remembered the kick as the thumb-sized bullets tore through enemy armor and shielding-

His rope jerked, and he snapped back to the present. They were now about twenty metres down the shaft. The second group had begun their descent, and now added more strain to the ropes. Vine made a worried noise, and looked down uncertainly. "Be careful, "he called to whoever was sharing his rope. His foot accidentally brushed a wall, and the tentacles there.

Immediately a shudder ran through the room. It was not mechanical, or from afar. It was mental-a ripple that resonated briefly, then faded. They all stopped, unsure of what to do. Horatio eyed his pistol to make sure it was loaded. Massad barked at them all to be still, and be vigilant. Something caught his eye, on the periphery of his vision.

One of the tentacles was _unfolding. _Segments curving outward, exposing a mottled core and a dark gap. From this gap, a form emerged, writhing horribly. It had an oval shaped head, gleaming eyes and white skin. It snarled, foul spittle running from its mouth. It fought to pull its talons free of the tentacle's confines. It was, he realised, a _nest._

Crying out in shock, Horatio fired a cluster of bullets. They penetrated the monstrosity's cranium with a _sprack, _and sent gooey brain matter everywhere. The corpse remained half-in, half-out of the hole. This small victory meant nothing, however, as the whole hive came awake around them.

Grotesque squelches now came from the shaft, as insects boiled from the tentacle-nests. Most seemed disorientated, drowsy, but a few were hungry for blood, and lunged at them.

The recording had allowed them to view their enemies, but experiencing them in real-life was something new entirely. They twitched, chattered and hissed like nothing they had ever heard-not even from fighting Drones. The Covenant arthropods were single-minded, and unused to intricate warfare. These ones had, underlying their ravenous attack, a cold, cunning intelligence. They knew what they wanted, how to get it and how to survive.

The first few, however, were somewhat lacking in that third department. The hail of fire from the high-strung marines shredded them, sending fragments of shell twisting to the floor. Vine unhooked his energy sword and swept it around in gleaming arcs, cutting through the attackers. Above their heads, flashes of gunfire indicated the second group was doing the same. "Take 'em down, don't give an inch marines!" Massad bawled.

For a time, it seemed as though they would beat back the demented insects. But no matter how many died, more arrived to take their place. Horatio quickly realised with despair that the hive was much deeper than the façade-this area of the base was probably riddled with biomass. He fired two more shots, ejected the clip and reached for another.

A larger insect with reddish talons flew right at him, tentacles snapping like whips. It got right in his face, and gnashed its fangs like a vice. One tentacle reached around, going for his neck. Horatio saw it coming and twisted to one side, dodging the limb. But this move had caused him to lose the grip on his pistol and it plummeted downward. Desperately, he pulled out the first thing he could find in his fatigues and slashed it downwards. Luck was on his side-it was the _neska._

The tentacle was cut away instantly, and a fountain of blue blood spurted forth. Yowling, the insect limped back to its nest, pale skin stained a vibrant blue. It did not look long for life. "Ha!" the marine laughed, and continued to thrash it about, scoring many razor cuts on the insects. Silently, he thanked the spirit of Coil for his parting gift.

Suddenly a piercing whistle echoed through the room, and the creatures halted their assault. One, poised inches from Massad's throat, gabbled something and turned around, wriggling back into the folds of its nest. The rest of them followed suit. The marines and Elites watched, dumfounded, as their attackers disappeared as quickly as they'd arrived. One lingered too long and was shot through the head as a punishment. "What the fuck is this?" someone exclaimed. "They had us on the ropes and they just decide to leave?"

"Stay alert! Weapons ready!" Massad's stentorian tones sounded through the shaft. "Damn bugs are probably getting ready for round two. Watch the sides!"

There they hung, for at least a minute. Sweat dripped through Horatio's midnight hair-the suddenness of the firefight had put him on the edge. He finally deactivated the _neska_ and, with difficulty, removed his needle rifle. With a shock, he realised he had no backup ammunition for the weapon. _Stupid! Stupid damn fuck-_

"OK, "Massad said heavily, cutting through his thoughts. "Resume climbing but _keep awake, _damnit!"

Before they could, however, there was more movement inside the tentacles, and everyone snapped to. They had all been waiting for it, and braced for the renewed assault.

Instead, several of the creatures emerged-but they looked different. They were purple-skinned, had distinct antennae and spindly hands. Unlike the white ones, they exited their nests seamlessly and glared fiercely at the marines. Akiro shouldered his gun and fired a tight burst.

At the last moment, his hand juddered, and the bullets missed, drilling into the steel wall. The marine grimaced in annoyance and fired again. Once again, it was off-target. "What the hell?" he shouted angrily. The insect closest to him hunched over and twitched its antenna.

"Argh!" Akiro clapped his hands to his temples, face contorted in agony. Veins stood out on his forehead, and his ears darkened with blood rushing through them. It looked like his head was about to explode. The other marines began to groan as well, cradling their heads. The Elites looked on bewildered. This was completely alien to them.

More of the purple insects started twitching their antennae, and the invisible pain increased. A fugue descended on them all, blinding them with pain. Energy was sapped from their limbs. Though the Elites continued to fight, the hive came awake once more…

Horatio had been bracing himself for the insect's mental attack, but it never came. He looked around, and saw his comrades in paroxysms of agony. Except for one-Dean. Numbly, he shook his head. What the hell was this? Some were affected, but not all?

As more white creatures emerged, some did not advance but instead gathered around the purple ones, raising their antennae. From what he could see, this was increasing the pressure. He pulled the trigger on his needle rifle, and watched as the shards turned three of the insects into diced meat. One other snarled its defiance, and a white trail trickled from pores in its head.

Horatio bashed it in the skull, but his mind was racing. These insects bled blue, the footage had confirmed that. Yet these white excretions told otherwise. Was it a kind of sweat? In a crazy moment, he recalled something from his childhood. A science lesson, from primary school…

_The teacher tapped the holo-board with her finger. "This is what happens when we eat, "she explained to the class arrayed before her, all dressed in bright yellow and blue uniforms. "Our body takes all the good stuff-called nutrients-and this helps keep our body healthy." On the screen, a 3-D hologram showed a man eating food, and a list of all the nutrients he received. Many of the class nodded earnestly, so as not to be thought unmindful. A few, like nine-year old Horatio, stared out the windows, bored. He wanted to go play grav-ball with his friends, but instead they were stuck here. Catching the eye of his best friend Carlos, he made a face. Carlos grinned. Horatio turned his attention back to the teacher. Perhaps she would be less boring now._

"_However, this is not the final stage. Our food is not all nutrients, so some is left behind. And where does this go?" The teacher had a slightly martyred expression on her face. "When we go to the toilet, we…get rid of it."_

"_You mean when we poop?" a voice called out from the back row. This incited an immediate storm of juvenile laughter, and more than a few improvised farting noises. As the teacher scolded them and called for quiet, Horatio grinned to himself. _As if this sort of information would ever make a difference… _As the old-fashioned brass bell sounded, Horatio tossed aside his school books and stretched. It was a good day for grav-ball…_

Twenty-six years later, hanging inside a ventilation shaft, Horatio thanked his younger self for at least having listened to that. Because he thought something similar was happening here. The insects drew sustenance from blood, he knew. But why weren't he and Dean being affected-

_He had scooped up some of the white liquid and taken a sniff._

_So had Dean._

Realisation hit him like a blast from a plasma grenade. He barely had time to process it, but it didn't matter. It was blindingly obvious now-so clear. But his discovery would have to wait. The marines needed help. Above the clamour, he shouted, "Dean!"

The Canadian twisted around and gazed at him. "Horatio! I thought you'd-"

Horatio batted that aside. "Yeah, I know. Something weird's going on, but it doesn't matter. Can you-"

A piercing scream split the air, and they both snapped their gazes across, to Akiro's rope.

The insects had swarmed him by now. The mental blast seemed to have hit him the worst-he shook and spasmed, his motor functions absolutely shot. His face was frozen in a rictus of paralysed terror. His hands moved feebly, trying to paw away the voracious creatures. But it was no use.

Pulling Akiro off the rope, they mobbed him and yanked him towards their nests. A large tentacle unfolded, and they began to shove him inside it. Fully aware of what was happening, he shrieked and tried to resist, but couldn't. Horrified, Dean and Horatio watched, unable to tear their gazes away.

"_Noooooo!" _the hapless marine screamed, a raw cry ripping from his throat. He was pulled into darkness, and the tentacles closed up. The insects made a disgusting cackling noise-they were _revelling _in Akiro's fate. With twin roars of vengeance, Dean and Horatio sprayed their enemies with bullets and needles. The swarm was mincemeat in seconds, tinny screams petering out from throats. Horatio inspected the ammo counter, and found he had only three shots left. _This ends now._

He swung his gaze around frantically, and saw Akiro's belt, complete with grenades, poking from the tentacle like an oversized tongue. "Dean!" he snapped. "Cover me." Around him, the other marines hung paralysed in the air, whilst the Elites continued their bloody crusade against the insects. They were unaware of their difficulties. Horatio's lip curled in disgust at their callousness. _Without 'em, we're well and truly screwed though._

He pushed forward and swung towards the wall where the belt hung. With a few well-placed strikes, he killed a few insects threatening to harass him and hooked his fingers around the straps. Stubbornly, the tentacle refused to give up its prize. A few more tries confirmed that it was not budging. "Fuck this, "he stormed, and whacked it. When it retracted, there was a moment of slack and he pulled the belt free. He slung it over his shoulder, and swung back. A large insect tried to stop him, but a burst from Dean took care of it.

Now that that part of the plan was done, it was time for the next. "See if you can't wake Massad, "he called, keeping on guard. Dean swung over to the sergean'ts rope, and gave him a shake. It was no good-he was as incapacitated as the rest of them, eyes clenched shut and wordless pain etched on his face. Dean shook his head.

Without at least one more lucid member of the group, his barely-conceived plan wouldn't get off the ground. There had to be another facet of this-another course of action…

Throughout the mass of white surrounding them, he caught a flash of purple, and with a rush he suddenly remembered when the entire subjugation process had begun-with their arrival. First one, then another, then more. And the pressure had increased. Once again, it was obvious. How could they have missed it?

"Dean! You see any of the purple buggers?" He bashed another insect in the face, denting it visibly.

"Yeah! Up there!" He pointed with a finger, further up the shaft. Nearly on the rim, a maroon-coloured insect glared down at them, with ever-twitching antenna. Dean fired at it, but it hopped to one side and was unharmed. "Let me, "Horatio snapped, and, holstering the needle rifle, brought his sniper rifle to the fore. With no time to line up his target, he fired. The insect dodged again.

Undeterred, Horatio pumped the last of his clip at the creature, and the last sent a spray of blue into the air as it drilled through its chest. Carking like a crow, it spun earthward, hands clutching its mortal wound. Cries of fright emanated from the other purple insects in the room, and they shrank back. Almost immediately, the mental weight lessened, and Massad's head rose up, blinking blearily. "Wha…?" he mumbled.

"Good to have you with us, Sarge, "Horatio remarked, deadpan. "Can you move?"

Massad flexed his hands and moved his legs. "Well enough. Now, you wanna catch me up-"

"No time, "Horatio interrupted. "We gotta get outta here. Can you climb up and grab-Hurley, is it? Yep, Hurley-and start pulling him down?"

"I-I think so. What's your plan?"

"Escape." Turning around, Horatio called, "Vine!" The Elite either couldn't hear him or wasn't listening. Frustrated, he ripped off his dog tags and chucked them at the Ossoona's back. He turned, and growled. "What is it?" He did not sound in the best of moods.

"Get your boys to start grabbing ours, "Horatio said roughly. "Rappel down the ropes-you're the only ones strong enough. I'll leave something behind for our insect friends. Clear?"

The look in the marine's eyes dared the ambitious Elite to argue. After a few seconds, he nodded gruffly and started pulling himself upwards, barking orders to Tendril and Creeper in Sangheilian. With annoyed huffs, they deactivated their energy swords and began hauling the marines onto the ropes.

Vine had Vedrich by the scruff of the neck, and was commencing his descent when a pair of the insects flew straight at him. He was defenseless against this-uttering shouts of infuriation, tried to swat them away with his head and feet. But the creatures were too agile, and one bounded forward and sank its teeth into the Elite's arm greedily. In his pain, Vine lost his grip on Vedrich.

The marine seemed to hang in the air for a second, like in a cartoon, but then gravity arrived with a vengeance. Arms flailing, Vedrich tumbled down the shaft without a sound, still immobilised. A few seconds later, there was a dull boom as his body collided with the floor. Vine gave a shrug, and then grabbed the biting insect by the throat. Squeezing hard, it gave a final blat as its windpipe was crushed. The second fared little better.

By now, the remaining marines were being pulled downward by Massad and the Elites. Dean looked at Horatio expectantly. "They've got 'em. Let's go."

Horatio started pulling grenades from his pockets. "You go. I'll set a charge to make sure they don't follow us. No, don't argue! Just go." He started threading the grenades pins onto Akiro's belt. With a look of worry, Dean started climbing down. The others were on their way as well.

He scanned the wall of biomass. _Gotta find something big enough… _Amongst the lesser tentacles, he spotted an enormous one, at least six metres wide. Belt in hand, he swung over to it and prodded it with his finger. After a moment, it yielded and peeled back.

Inside were white globules of something. It almost looked like tree sap. Shaking his head, he looked for a nub of flesh he could secure the belt on. He spotted one, but it was far back into the nest. "Oh, god, "he muttered, and plunged his hand into it. It felt like off custard and was about as appetising. Once he had gotten a firm grip on it, he pulled it towards him like a string of taffy. Looping the belt around it, he patted his pockets for-_ah yes, here it is. _He pulled it out and studied it.

He wondered if it would still work. It had been given to him years ago. Maybe the fuse had burned out. Well, if it had, it would settle things once and for all. Twisting out the pin, he shoved it into the nest near the belt. Thirty seconds. He turned to leave.

Then something huge clamped onto his arm. With a startled yelp he lost his footing and would have fallen if not for the clip on his belt. He tried to pull away, and felt flat jags of teeth grinding into his arm. Pain flooded through his arm. He twisted his head around, so he could get a look.

It had a slicked-back head, and was covered in warts and other protrusions. In size, it dwarfed the other insects-now he understood why the tentacle-nest was so big. Slobbering, it continued to devour his arm, eyes alight with hunger. Soon he would meet the same fate as Akiro. Actually, he wouldn't. The grenades would kill him first. Twenty seconds…

Once again, he tried pulling away, but the thing had too tight a grip on him. And he had no weapons. _"Get out of it!" _he bellowed, and punched it in the head, thudding into soft flesh/ And again. And again.

With his seventh punch it squealed, and relaxed slightly. Horatio pulled his arm out. The monster's teeth dug deep and drew blood beneath his skin, but he ignored it. He had perhaps ten seconds left. Jumping back, he slid down the rope. The shaft dropped away as the enraged cries of the insects followed him. Five….four…three…two…one…

Just as he hit the bottom, a loud explosion rocked the room, pushing him to the ground. A bright light flared momentarily, illuminating the scene. Chunks of biomass and carapace rained down like autumn leaves. Small spotfires burned here and there. A few dying cries were heard. Laughing giddily, Horatio got to his feet and shook his head to clear the concussion.

The group stared upwards silently, still too shocked to deal with what had transpired. The marines looked like they were waking from a nightmare. The Elites, while still stoic, looked rattled. Massad turned haunted eyes on Horatio and smiled weakly. "All in one piece, Private?"

He nodded. "All good." He looked around, and, upon seeing the broken body of Vedrich, fought back a wave of nausea. "We should get going, before they regroup." Once again, Horatio found himself taking charge. He scowled inwardly. _Forget this whole leadership lark, Horatio. Soon as we're back to the old squad, we're a regular ground-pounder and that's that._

"Where's Akiro?" someone asked. Numb, Horatio shook his head. He was not ready to talk about that yet.

Silently, the group exited through the service door. All bravado had gone. After having fought the Covenant for nigh on thirty years, they were no longer alien, unknowable, unfathomable. Now, to feel it all over again, albeit in a far smaller arena of conflict, was to feel that terrible way again-lost, alone and drowning in the darkness. The sooner they were out, the better.

Mission Clock: 1827

A small, shabby corridor, lined with rubbish, cleaning materials and other detritus. After surviving the drop, capturing the Scarab, taking the base and delving into its depths, they had arrived at a pivotal moment. Ahead lay the Communications Centre. It lit a small hope in the hearts of the group.

Massad turned the knob, expected it to be locked-but the creaky door swung inward. Exchanging perplexed looks with the others, he moved in slowly, rifle cocked. The flashlight on the barrel helped light the room.

It was spacious, but had a low ceiling-and it was dirty. Evidently there hadn't been a maintenance crew down here in some time. The defining feature of the room were the numerous batteries and generators, scattered around like monoliths. Screens showed their output and upkeep. A few were broken. Had the insects made it this far?

Horatio moved ahead of the others, keen to inspect the other side of the room. A squat dish took up a lot of space. A transmitter of some kind. The base had what appeared to be plasma scoring-charred wires poked out. He scowled. This would make their job doubly hard. He heard a noise, and turned quickly.

Nothing to be seen-although that didn't mean much. There was so much crap in this room, there was no limit to the amount of places someone could hide. But after their encounter with the insects, he was suitably paranoid. His eyes slowly scanned the room. There! A shadow in a corner, slipping away. He ran forward.

The figure was shrouded in the dark, but he wasn't going to let him escape. Dodging a wild punch, Horatio tackled the person the the floor. He looked down.

It was a naval tech, his side a ragged wound with dark blood spattering it. He had been holding a pistol, but dropped it. "Get off me, "was all he managed to say before his eyes rolled back and he fell unconscious.

A door on the far side of the room burst open, and more base personnel flooded into the room. They looked frightened but determined. One of them pulled back the charging handle on his rifle, but another slapped it out of his hands. "Stand down, corporal, "he snapped. "Can't you see they're marines?" A medic rushed forward past Horatio, and moved the wounded tech off to one side, unwrapping an aid kit.

The man who'd spoken wore the dual silver bars of a Captain on his tattered uniform. Underneath his breast pocket were stitched the words: JAMISON.

Massad straightened, and saluted. "Captain, sir!"

Jamison smiled slightly and returned the salute. "At ease, sergeant." He was a young man, with neat black hair (covered mostly by a cap) and green eyes that shone with a quiet confidence. His leg was bound in bloodstained leather strips. Horatio was impressed-most base commanders were lieutenant colonels or above, and were older veterans of the war. That a relatively young officer like Jamison had made it to that position meant one of two things-he had achieved it through connections, or had extreme talent. The latter seemed more likely.

Jamison coughed, and gestured around the room. "I'd welcome you in, but I'm afraid this is all we have left of the base-insofar as I know, we're the last survivors. How'd you manage to get down here, sergeant…?"

"Massad, sir. A whole bunch of us landed off-course, and we stole a Scarab. Then, we used it to get here, some of the Elites joined us and we took care of the Covenant garrison. Then a few of us headed down here…we were planning to flush out the rest of them before getting evac'd by the Elites air assets. That's the whole of it sir."

This brief report was stated with all the excitement of a man filling out a bank form. The details of it, however, were enough to make the base personnel stare in amazement. Jamison rubbed his hair in a gesture of disbelief. "That's one hell of a story, Massad. Us, well, we didn't fare quite as well. The Brutes have around five battalions down here on Gethrii-one was sent here to take the base, the other four mobilised the other way to meet our main force. I had about four hundred combat personnel to hold the fort. We repulsed most of them, thanks to the gun turrets, but then another column of armor arrived-blew the gates wide open. Then, well, it was mostly open slaughter." A sorrowful expression came onto the young Captain's face. "We fell back to the main complex-planned to hold them off from here. And we would have succeeded, too, if it wasn't for those…_things _infesting the base." He shuddered.

Massad shouldered his rifle. "Well, we didn't just come down here to clean house, sir. We were hoping we could get a message out to the ships in-system; maybe even get this place destroyed."

"Destroyed?" Jamison asked, his fingers drawing together to form tight fists. After a few seconds, he released them and sighed heavily. "I can see the logic of that, Sergeant. But I'm afraid that it's impossible. A Covenant shock team got down here and caused some serious damage before we took care of them. Main satellite connection's busted-and we don't have the tools to fix it up."

"Maybe we do, sir. Dean!" The marine came forward, carrying a satchel. Massad nodded at him and said, "We scavenged a whole lot of com equipment before coming down here. Do you have a radio tech?"

Jamison grinned, relieved. "That we do. Landers! Grab the gear and see what you can do." A technician wearing a sling stepped forward, accepted the satchel and knelt down, pulling out the radios and other things. Jamison nodded in satisfaction. "We'll know soon enough, I guess. Now, we need to plan an escape."

Massad sighed, and tugged his beard. "Easier said than done, sir. The bugs have infested the base, and there are still Covenant on top of that. My men outside will realise something's up…but they'll be walking into a deathtrap. And the Elites will be here in-" he inspected his mission timer-"about thirty minutes. If we're not out of here by then, we'll be stranded here. And with the wounded, we'll have trouble."

With those last words, a shadow of apprehension passed over Jamison's face for the first time. "Yeah, um…about the wounded. There's one more through here. But…" He trailed off and then beckoned. "Come see for yourself." He walked through the side door, and Massad and several others followed.

It was a storeroom, filled with shelves. A larger space up the far end was taken up by a pair of large crates, with a pallet in between.

Sitting on the pallet, arms around the crates, was a large figure clad in exoskeletal armor. It was silver-grey, and shone with a dull light. Horatio caught his breath upon seeing the man's left leg. The armor had been split open by savage claws, and the leg inside had been torn apart. Shards of bone were visible within the bloody flesh. Upon its head was a strange-looking helmet. It had a beak-like protrusion under the chin, and had a small, slittish visor. It almost looked like a racing helmet. A small serial number read SCOUT. On the forehead, there was a small sigil; a boot, floating above a line that symbolised the ground.

Massad stared at the figure with awe and an almost reverential expression on his face. "Is that…"

Jamison nodded soberly. "Yes. That's a Spartan."

Near silence on the bridge. For the past hour, it had been the polar opposite. The multitude of damages ailing the Sangheili cruiser had demanded all of their attention. Now, with the vessel more or less intact, the bridge officers watched their Shipmaster, ready for their orders.

It was optimistic, however, to think an answer was forthcoming. Orbo Daruf' had stared at the holo-screens with a madman's gaze the entire time. Any queries were met with silence. Either he was planning something, or was frozen in terror. It was a worrying situation.

Although they did not know it, Orbo was actually utilising a tested method of calming, used by many shipmasters. Known as the _jirhaki_, or The Steps in the Sangheili tongue, the shipmaster recollected as many past events leading up to his present situation as possible, as a way of achieving perspective. It could be a lengthy process, depending on the keeness of the person's memory. For Orbo, it was something that took him back months.

He remembered when he stepped out onto the balcony of his estate in High Charity, only to see the lower districts aflame and screaming in the streets. The weighty _boom _of Jiralhanae firearms. Inky plumes rising from the charred shells of his friend's houses.

He remembered fighting tooth and nail to keep the Flood off his ship, the _Judicial Cleansing,_ in the fighting around Delta Halo, which ultimately proved a failure. Only the timely intervention of the _Incorruptible _gave him time to escape to a dropship with the remainder of his crew. Shame flooded through him with that memory…

He remembered being part of the Arbiter's team that assaulted the Ark's generator tower, a high-ranking group of Elite nobility. The tower had been darkened, but at a price-his last surviving crewman from the holy city, Nurif Wasav', had fallen. A howl of grief escaping his mouth, and the hand of the Arbiter on his shoulder…

Reality cut through his recollection, and he remembered that they were still in a naval battle with the Jiralhanae. He would have to attend to that, then. He drew in a final deep breath, and released it. His soul had been cleansed, his mind purified. Now only one thing occupied his attention-winning the fight. He now studied the screens more intently.

Shielding was at full capacity, and remarkable work by the Huragok had helped ease pressure on the reactor. No fighters, but that mattered little in this battle. But the flow of plasma to the turrets was less than satisfactory. They would have to make every shot count. A section of the ship pulsed red, and he frowned. Significant damage to the superstructure. If they strayed too close to the gravity well, the resulting forces could very well tear _Mercurial Resurgence _in half.

He absorbed this and countless other details, that formed one single understanding. A laugh-unbidden-bubbled up inside him and he released it, a single bark that echoed through the chamber. Many of his Elites exchanged nervous looks, thinking that their shipmaster had taken leave of his senses. Nothing could be further from the truth.

He faced them all. "The time is now, warriors. We have spent enough time in the shadow of this moon, while the Brutes prowl out there. Thinking, no doubt, that they are now the unchallenged rulers of the system. Arrogance in the extreme, is it not? I propose we venture out there and show them how wrong they are. Painfully. Is this acceptable to you, warriors?"

The answering roar shook the room, and all bridge officers took to their duties with renewed vigor. Ref gave a Sangheili salute, and his hands hovered over his console. "Orders, Shipmaster?"

Orbo tapped a few buttons and pointed. "Bring us about the dark side of the moon. Prepare emergency thrusters for when we commence orbital burn-I want our velocity to be too fast to track. Majordomo Lemu, adjust plasma turrets for extreme-speed targeting. Should we succeed, the fiends will be stunned and vulnerable to secondary attack. Send these instructions to the Huragok over INTERSHIPCOM: siphon drive power from the conduits, but nothing that will hamper our progress unduly. Hold it in reserve until I order otherwise."

The cruiser swooped around the moon, engines flaring blue-white. Soon they would re-enter the fray, and they would have their due vengeance.

"Christ on a cracker…a goddamn Spartan, "Dean muttered.

They all stared at the armored warrior, speechless. How many times had they seen one of these super soldiers-fast, deadly and indomitable-lay waste to the Covenant, achieving the impossible? After Reach, such sights had become less frequent. But here was one now. In the flesh.

And he was wounded. Usually, these walking tanks could sustain the worst pain imaginable-even being shot by fuel rod guns at point blank range. But thus one seemed to be quite out of it. Once again, they were reminded of the ferocity of the insects. If they could down a Spartan, who knows what else they could do?

"So what's his story?" someone asked. "Why isn't he with Bergen?" Horatio recalled the name of the general in charge of the Marine Corps on Gethrii.

Jamison shrugged. "He arrived here about three weeks ago. Some ONI attache, his story goes. I asked him his name, but he told me it was classified and called himself Lambda-Three. Base security-but I reckon that's a load of tosh. Spartans don't get assigned to policing forward bases, no matter how much shit hits the fan. He was escorting us down here when the insects attacked. Copped the worst of it. We got him stabilised but he's still in bad shape. Wait a moment-"

The figure seemed to have moved slightly. Jamison leaned down, and stared at the Spartan's faceplate. He tapped it with his finger. "Hello?"

With a motion that seemed faster than light, the Spartan's hand lunged out and grabbed the Captain's in a vice grip. He yelped in surprise and pain as the Spartan rose his head. "Water." His voice rasped like metal being dragged over gravel. It did not sound human. Everyone recoiled slightly at hearing it. The Elites, on the other hand, watched with fascination.

Someone elbowed their way forward, carrying a canteen. Lambda-Three released his grip on Jamison, and took the canteen. One hand reached up, clicked a button, and pulled it off with a metallic whoosh.

The Spartan looked to be about twenty-surprisingly young. His face was pale, but was covered in a bristly fuzz that surrounded his mouth. Hard blue eyes stared out at the world. Lifting the canteen, he drank deeply, and then tossed it aside. "Thanks." He spoke with a New Zealand accent, shortening his vowels.

He looked at all the faces arrayed around them and scowled-Spartans hated attention. "Why don't you take a picture? It'll last longer."

Jamison's voice was low and quiet. "Can you move? What's your status?"

"Give me a sec." Lambda-Three grunted, and pulled himself up. His leg creaked, and pain flitted across his face, but incredibly, he managed to stand. Looking around, he said, "Now what?"

Jamison indicated Massad and the rest of the group. "Marines have arrived, and evac's on its way. We just need to get out of the base. Can you walk?"

"I can take care of myself, "snapped Lambda-Three. He seemed to consider the possibility of infirmity as a personal insult. "Are we leaving or not?" He replaced his helmet and pulled a strange-looking rifle from his back. It looked like a sniper rifle, but had a longer barrel and magnetic clips attached to the sides. Horatio recognised it as a Model 99 SASR, a weapon specifically designed for flesh targets. Seeing as it was a specialist's weapon, he was surprised to see a Spartan wielding it as a common firearm.

The captain held up his hands. "Unfortunately, we can't just yet. The insects infesting this base are a major threat and need to be taken care of. We need to get in contact with the ships in orbit and have them destroy the base."

"What?" The Spartan shouted, causing everyone to jump. "They can't just destroy this facility on account of a couple of bugs-"

"It's far more than a couple of bugs, soldier, "Jamison said in a hard voice. "If they break out, they could wreak untold havoc. I won't leave them here to their own devices."

Lambda-Three folded his arms angrily. "That's bullshit. I won't allow it."

Jamison' eyes flared with anger. "You seem to be forgetting who's in charge here, Spartan. I am the captain of this base, and what I say goes. You haven't even given me rank-nor a _good _reason for being here in the first place. And furthermore, why the hell are you so against this plan? What's there to lose?"

The Spartan was quiet for a second, and Horatio realised he was struggling to find a response. "That's classified, "came the guarded reply.

Jamison cast his eyes skyward in frustration. "Don't give me classified! If you know something, then say it! Don't beat around the bush. You hear me?"

The Spartan's hands twitched, and the captain followed up his speech with a terse warning. "And don't even think about going for that weapon. You're wounded, and there are more of us. If you obstruct our mission in any way, we will terminate you." He pulled out his pistol, and racked the slide. The other marines cocked their rifles as well, made brave by superior numbers. Others didn't, looking uneasy. Did they have the guts to shoot a Spartan? Probably not.

Lambda-Three looked pissed off, fists tightened in his metal gauntlets. The standoff continued, until the Spartan sighed through his helmet, and dropped his rifle. "Fine then. We'll go with your plan."

Jamison batted that aside. "Not just that. I want to know who you are, and why you're here. Enough ONI shadow-stalking. Come clean." The pistol was still in his hand. His gaze was steady.

The Spartan made a harsh growling noise, and shook his head. "I'll do that. But you have to understand there are certain things I cannot divulge without proper word-clearance. Anything that is irrelevant to my being here is off-limits. Understood?"

Jamison nodded emphatically. "Yes, yes, you're fine. Now, begin. Your name?"

"Petty Officer Lucas-G179 Spartan-III." He settled back down onto the pallet, carefully stretching his leg. "ONI Section Three, Lightfoot Ops."

The captain threw up his hands. "Hang on, wait. Slow down. What's a Spartan-III? I thought there was only the II generation."

"That was true at first." He reached for the canteen, found it was out of reach, and settled back with a soft curse. "But in 2531, a secret sub cell of Section Three decided that more super soldiers were needed. But, they had to be less expensive-and more efficient-than the originals. A "fire-and-forget" group of Spartans. That was us."

"Did you guys have MJOLNIR armor or any of that stuff?" someone asked.

Lucas shook his head. "Negative. That's why the Spartan-II project was considered impractical-the resources and time. We used Semi-Powered Infiltration armor, or SPI for short. A cross between camouflage and ballistic armor." He cleared his throat.

"Our training took place on a planet called Onyx, a black hole by anyone's standards. That, by the way, is classified.

"Alpha Company was the first. Kids, mostly orphans from Harvest, Biko and so on. They could only fit 300, so there was a process of elimination. But the program started to work, and in six years they were a proper fighting force. Then they went on some suicide mission-don't ask me, I don't know-and the entire company was wiped out."

"Trust ONI to screw things up, "Massad growled, and many others agreed. Lucas shrugged, and continued his talk.

"Beta Company was up next. Once again, they worked far better than anyone could have hoped-lasting longer than Alpa-but they were sent on another suicide mission. Only two survived. They became assistants to our main trainer-Lieutenant Commander Ambrose. Again, classified."

He clapped his hands together. "Then, there was us. Gamma. The last-we didn't have enough time or resources left. So, all of ONI's effort went into making us the best soldiers in the history of humanity. We would have the augmentations, better armor and better training. It was now or never. There were about 330 of us."

"The Covenant found Earth, though. And suddenly we had no time for training and tournaments. It was the real thing. Three hundred fifteen of us shipped out of Onyx. Fifteen more stayed behind." Something was in his voice when he said those last few words. Regret? Horatio understood that well. _Stuff he's not telling us. Teammates lost, left behind-so it goes._

"But it wasn't as simple as all of us converging to the defence of Earth. Half of the company did, scattered around locations around the planet, dealing with Covenant incursions. Only a couple headed to New Mombasa and environs-ONI still wanted us to be a secret." He snorted, and said, mostly to himself, "Galaxy's burning down and secrecy's still the name of the game…"

"Where'd the other half go?" Massad inquired. His grip on the MA5K had relaxed, but was still tight.

Lucas's voice became sly. "ONI was taking a huge risk here. They were banking on the fact that we would defeat the Covenant, and Earth would be more or less intact. For the past year, all prowlers not assigned to top-priority missions already were commissioned to go deep into space; into regions held by the enemy. Then, they would gather intel on any strongholds, factories, dig sites-you name it-that they had. Anything that the Covies could use to regroup, and come back to Earth to finish the job. _That _was our task."

"I was part of Team Kukri. Five of us, sent to a remote system-Beta Halcyon. Not far from Alpha Aurigae, in terms of geography. The place was chock-full of black holes and temporal anomalies, making a Slipspace journey through it one hell of a minefield. Only one planet there. The Covenant had set up a testing facility there, using ships to test new and better ways of FTL travel. According to ONI, they were on the verge of a breakthrough. We were sent in to make sure it never came to light. Took us some time, but we did it."

"The base was built atop a series of pylons. The planet's ground was very brittle, so they couldn't place the entire facility on it-rather, they distributed through the pylons. We were supposed to place some charges at an exact location, and the whole thing would topple. Problem was, there was a massive security detail and we couldn't shoot our way to victory. So, we decided to sneak in using Banshees. The plan was to drop out of them, landing precisely onto the pylons and begin attaching the charges. We'd be done before the Covies realised what was going on. My job was to commandeer a Phantom, and provide our getaway, back to our prowler on the edge of the system."

He sighed mournfully. "To cut a long story short, it didn't go as planned. Just as I was coming in for the pickup, a tractor beam was activated and I started getting pulled back towards the base. I tried anything-everything-to get the damn thing moving again, but it was no use. I remember slamming into a wall, before I got knocked unconscious."

"When I came to, I was inside an ONI sloop. Hooked up to this medical machine. I was told my team had died in the explosion. All KIA." He drew a ragged breath. "Leah, Wendy, Alberto, Gunther…all dead." Horatio felt a moment of pity for Lucas. Despite his losses, he'd never lost an entire team in one go.

"After about a week arrived at some ONI command centre, and I was sent to talk to this Vice Admiral. The new head of ONI. Apparently I'd been "reassigned." Along with six other Spartans from my company. I never met them, though. At the time, I was ready to walk out the door and damn the consequences, but then the VA let me in on why I was there."

"She said that the survival of humanity-the defense of Earth-was extremely important, but there was another matter that was equally important. Alien technology. Forerunner artifacts. The Covenant had reverse-engineered them and gotten great results, so why not us? We were supposed to go on missions wherever there might be a sniff of ancient technology. Secure it, retrieve it, and if we couldn't do that, destroy it. So it began-the Lightfoot Ops." He spread his arms in a mock theatrical gesture. "We were given low-grade MJOLNIR armor, armor abilities and a few further augmentations in order to prepare for our missions. There you have it."

A short silence followed the Spartan's tale. Then Jamison asked quietly, "So why are you here?"

Lucas pointed upwards. "Because of those things infesting the base. About a month before the fighting on Gethrii began, an ONI geological survey team stumbled across a pocket cavern. It was not a natural formation-and there were more like it, all relatively close together. Hieroglyphics, too. Prize shit for spooks. Using their influence, they made sure Sentinel Base was constructed right above the caverns. Then they continued their excavations. Discreetly. I was sent to oversee the operation, and report on any discoveries."

"One day, we found another cavern-bigger than the rest, and deeper too. There were eggs and some sort of dormant insectile life form. Judging from what we know now, I'd say it was a queen of some sort. After conducting some studies, we brought them back to the base for further research. But the increase in temperature, ambient light, etcetera-woke them up, and the queen-if that's what it is-started producing more eggs. Unfortunately, the Covenant decided to shove their noses in and we had to fight. They broke out, and waited. When we'd beaten the aliens off, they launched their attack."

Jamison took over now. "That was a bad time. After fending off the enemy, we were in no shape to do the same with the insects. I tried to seal off parts of the base, but the whole place was-is-riddled with the little fuckers. Once things got too hot, we rounded up any personnel still alive and hot-footed it down here. Lucas here-" he nodded to the Spartan-"was our escort. The insects chewed his leg up pretty bad. The rest you know."

There was a clang, and Landers, the radio technician, stumbled forward clutching a SATCOM radio. "Captain! It worked. I've got _Silver Lining _on the other end. Transmission's weak, so make it quick." Jamison took the radio and said, "This is Captain Jamison of Sentinel Base, do you read me? I repeat, this is Captain Jamison of Sentinel Base. Please respond."

The gruff voice of Captain Hodgkins came through. "_I read you, Captain. What's your situation?"_

Jamison shook his head. "It's all gone to Hell's shithole down here, sir-the base was attacked, and there is a threat from new hostiles."

"_New hostiles? Clarify, captain."_

"Bugs, sir. Not Drones-not Covenant. They've infested the base and are a very serious threat. If they break out, we'll have a catastrophe on our hands. They have telepathic ability and are very numerous. Suggest level-five containment, sir-destroy the base."

There was a long silence, punctuated by crackling static, then Hodgkins said, _"I trust your instincts on this one, Jamison. Right now we're having problems of our own up here-but I can help you out. Commencing in-atmosphere fly-by in approximately forty-five minutes. I will use the ship's MAC guns. However, if you and your men have not evacuated by then, I will have no choice but to fire. Are we clear?"_

"Clear as crystal, sir. Thank you. Jamison out." He faced them all. "Well, you heard the man. In forty-five minutes this place will be a pile of rubble. Prepare to leave. Oh, and Spartan, "he said, casting eyes to the wounded Lucas. "Before we do, perhaps you ought to tell us what you know about these insects."


	16. Author's Note

Hey there guys and gals. Tis I, the author. Well, no shit, haha. Anyways, I don't often do this, but I kinda need your help. My reviews have become stagnant, and I only just recently got one, the first one in months. And reviews are like the sweet sweet honeydew that feeds my drive to write. Not to mention, on a more pragmatic note, it lets me correct any faults/imperfections in my writing style. So yeah, kind of a Big Deal.

I've gotten many Favourite Story alerts, and these warm my heart. But it would be twice as awesome if I could read what you kind chaps have to say once in a while. So I am now laying down an unofficial policy of Read=Review. It doesn't have to be the CliffNotes on the relevant chapter-just a quick line on what you thought of it. Anyone who does this has my gratitude and appreciation.

For the record, my other story, "Audacity", is close to being updated, so if you haven't checked that one out yet, don't be shy :P

So in closing, thanks for all the support so far. Now it's time to take it to the next level. I hope you'll help me out.

Peace!


	17. Chapter 15

*Chapter Fourteen

EARTH TIME: 19th of October

Divash Plains

Gethrii

Covenant Battle Calendar: Nineteenth Unit, Third Megacycle since Landing

The Divash plains were a rocky wasteland, bereft of any great geographical ornamentation. Dust of varied colours swirled in the air, and the feeble sun, beginning to lower itself above, lanced its harsh rays downward to paint the scene. An occasional hot wind, courtesy of Gethrii's volcanic vents, ruffled the meagre grey bushes and desert scrub. A small, diamond-scaled lizard trundled from its nest beneath a rock, tongue flicking.

And was promptly crushed under a booted heel. A lone claw twitched weakly from a mass of pulped flesh.

Alpha-Chieftain Ferradus sniffed derisively and scraped his foot on a rock. The lizard was a lemming-one of the myriad species on Gethrii that trembled under stones, watching the larger predators go by. In this, the lizards were akin to the humans infesting this planet. Professing to delusions of grandeur but so pitifully weak. _And we, the Jiralhanae, will be the strutting wolf. Sleek and deadly._

It amused him to think of himself this way. Ferradus was not conventionally big, but he had a thickness about him that suggested gargantuan strength. A stiff comb of silver-white hair stood erect upon his head-a sign of great respect amongst his kind. He was clad in orange-black armor, designating his status as an Alpha. Wrapped around his massive shoulders was a cloak made of the skins of various human and Sangheili commanders he had slaughtered. The thought made him snigger. Slung on his back was his family's ceremonial war hammer, the Fist of Mathrok. Its massive steel head shimmered and crackled with gravitational forces. Unlike other Alphas, however, he wore a helmet with a powerful built-in energy shield. No sniper would be able to pierce it without a constant barrage. At the same time, it was not an ornate headdress. Such things had no place on the vistas of war.

Ferradus was not like his fellow Alphas, who had largely devolved to their ancestral ways. Totems, rituals, savagery and brutality characterized their ruling ways. He was not quick to forget what advantages union with the Covenant had brought them. He looked around him, and saw evidence of this. A low snort of pleasure rippled through his blood red gums.

Jiralhanae, proud and true warriors of the Covenant as far as the eye could see. Among them, scattering of the lesser races-mere peons, beasts of burden. He saw a clutch of Unggoy, clad in orange armor, ailing under the weight of power cores and stationary shields. More objects of his disdain. No doubt they would be the first to die. He had no qualms with that-strangers could die in droves for all he cared. The only loyalty he possessed was to his fighters.

They were organized into subpacks, six in each, led by a member of the army's officer cadre. Although that was a rough term-despite his best efforts, many of them consisted of his bigger and stronger Jiralhanae. His desire for smarter, more cunning warriors had not gone as well as he had hoped. Fear of him, if anything, would keep them in line. He cast a surreptitious glance to his own belt, bristling with weaponry and trophies. Among them swung the canine fangs of several Brute captains who had acted out of line. No-one was indispensable.

Four minors to each squad, and a major as second-in-command. Most, if not all of the former had come of age recently, their skills honed in Gethrii's harsh lands. In an effort to boost morale, he had granted such status to them almost immediately after blooding. It went against his own beliefs, but he was cunning enough to realise such a gambit could prove fruitful. Such actions were what made military stalwarts.

Perhaps there were not as many as Jiralhanae armies on other planets, but overwhelming force was the poor general's excuse. Besides, the humans were not very numerous either.

Idling at the front of the army was his vast armada of attack vehicles, saved up for many months and now ready to be unleashed. Two hundred Type-25 RAVs, crewed by Jiralhanae Impalers, a branch of the Covenant forces dedicated to vehicular warfare. Jagged spikes and prongs protruded from these, and the growling of their engines was a bass roar. Behind them, looking decidedly less threatening, were three hundred Ghosts. Unggoy, wearing extra-thick armor, squatted in the seats, stubby legs dangling. Most of them would be killed quickly, but they would be effective in large numbers. Then the true warriors could take the field.

Above his head, was a slightly less pleasing sight. Phantom dropships and Banshee attack craft meandered over the plain, filled with Jiralhanae Rangers. Their jump-packs would allow them a great amount of mobility during the battle. If he could get at least half of them onto the battlefield, they would unleash havoc upon the human forces. The lack of support aircraft, however, made this unlikely. He made a mental note to position more of them on the ground, amongst the armor companies.

Speaking of which, a dozen Wraith gun carriages brought up the rear, safeguarded by a complement of Mgalekgolo shock troops. Both would be great assets in the battle to come; striking fear into the hearts of their enemies was a specialty. He had about eighty in total. Truly a force to be feared. He had worked hard to earn their loyalty, even challenging a pair to unarmed combat. Ferradus had crawled away more dead than alive, but the same could not be said for his opponents. A pair of cobalt spines now graced his waist.

Some distance behind the army marched the supply train; mostly dregs and wounded, Unggoy and Kig-Yar too incompetent to be soldiers, useful now only as baggage handlers. Plasma turrets, miniature plasma mortars, shield generators, portable watch towers, fusion coils, communication spires, food and drink outlets-all this and more made up the paraphernalia of those pitiful souls. Still, without it they would be hard pressed to maintain their battle fervour. It annoyed him that supposed warriors required material comfort in fighting for their Hierarchs and Gods. Something to be addressed after the battle.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hulking form of one of his adjutant-chieftains. Travalrus, a former honor guard of the Prophet of Mercy who had escaped the fiasco on the second Holy Ring, who possessed a clear head for combat. Nothing pleased him more than to be in the fray, blades swinging and rifles booming. Adding to this, he was extremely devout, blessing the Forerunners daily.

An exemplary Jiralhanae. Ferradus only wished that more of his men were so.

Travalrus bowed stiffly to the Alpha-Chieftain, and made a sign offering obeisance to the Hierarchs. "Chieftain. It is a fine day to wreak slaughter on the humans."

Ferradus laughed gaily and clapped a meaty hand on his subordinate's shoulder. "Indeed it is. Prepare your warriors-we increase our pace."

Travalrus saluted and nodded, but inwardly he was resentful. Ferradus approved of him only as a lapdog. An unambitious, sniveling one at that. He was anything but. He well knew that if he were to alter his subservient nature, his head would soon be decorating a war pike.

Were he on certain other worlds, he would be commanding armies himself. Instead, Fate had seen fit to place him here, toadying to a braggart. It was something he would not stand for long. _With any luck, _he thought, _bloody battle will soothe my troubles._

The Covenant host marched onward, under the hot sun. To glory.

Lucas G179 shrugged and got to his feet. "We don't know a whole lot more than you, to be honest. But I'll tell you what information we gleaned."

"Most of the hieroglyphics were indecipherable, but one recurred many times and we used some Elite translation software. Apparently these insects are called Etherswarms. Ethers for short. Obviously, it's a reference to their telepathic abilities-which are extremely potent. They send out a mental pulse that incapacitates their opponents-"

"Not all of their opponents, "Horatio interrupted tersely. "The Elites, Dean and myself weren't affected. Dean and I sniffed some white liquid from the insects, and as for them…" He trailed off, deep in thought. Vine and his subordinates looked equally pensive.

Lucas tilted his head. "Is that so? Interesting. Perhaps its some sort of retardant. Can't speak for the Elites, though. Anyway, there are three kinds. The white ones are the common breed-workers, builders, that sort of thing. They're also the Etherswarms primary soldiers-though "soldiers is a generous term for those twitchy bastards." He sniffed contemptuously. "Then there are the purple-skinned ones. ONI egg-heads named them "nodes". They channel the mental pulse from the white insects, and focus it into a stream. The more there are, the more pressure there is." Horatio nodded again; everything was adding up so far.

"Lastly, the queen. As you'd expect, there's only one per nest-but considering how quickly they build them, that's not saying much. One big bitch, let me tell you. It took a goddamn crane to get her out of the cave. Her role's self-evident; make more of the little fuckers."

Horatio recalled the monstrous creature that had nearly cost him his life. It had been the queen, he had no doubts about it. With a surge of revulsion, he recalled the white sacs on the nest wall. They had been eggs.

"However, there is one more thing-the queen facilitates a hive mind, from what we could tell. The other Ethers all partake of it. If the queen was to die, then they'd be out of action for some time."

Captain Jamison held up his hand. "Out of action? You're sure about this?"

Lucas nodded sardonically-although it was hard to tell with the helmet. "Cross my heart and hope to die. What's it matter anyway? I thought we were leaving."

"We are, "Jamison nodded. "But we can do some damage while we do. The Ethers will be expecting us, and rubbing out this queen seems like a sure-fire way to cram a spanner in the works. We can do it."

Lucas snorted, the sound echoing through his helmet. "Forgive me if I don't share your confidence, _sir. _The queen is smart. She won't pop out because we make noise; she'll have her underlings take care of us. But I'm going to assume you have a no doubt half-assed plan to succeed. Am I right?"

Lucas's tone had been verging on insolent, and Jamison stared him down coldly. "Watch your tone, Spartan, or I'll leave you down here. And, yes, I do have a plan. And it involves you. Are you combat-ready?"

Lucas stood, leg trembling slightly. "Give me some more biofoam and I will be. So then, what's my role?" he asked sarcastically.

Jamison tossed him a canister of the flesh-sealing material and pointed at the wall. There was a grate leading up, with the cover seal removed. "That shaft leads upward, and faces the hive. I want you in place while we ascend the shaft. When the queen shows her face, take her out. Understood?"

The Spartan sighed. "Riiiight….there are plenty of things I can find wrong with that, but I'll pick this one: what makes you think I'll be able to get the shot? It's a big shaft, and the queen could show up anywhere."

The captain rummaged through his pockets, and held up a small data pad. "I can track your progress on this. Once you're in position, we'll focus fire on the wall opposite. The queen will react to that sort of treatment. Trust me." It was quite a bold statement from Jamison.

Massad cleared his throat. "Good plan sir, if it works-but what if it don't? What's the fallback plan?"

Jamison nodded grimly. "Then we deal with the insects as best we can. Make no mistake; we are short on time and need to execute this ASAP. No matter what happens, I want at least some of us getting out of here alive. Cut your losses and run. That goes for you too, Spartan, "he added. Lucas folded his arms in a gesture that could've meant anything.

Looking around, the captain glared. "What are you waiting for? Unless you want to become floating atoms in-"he consulted his watch-"forty minutes, _move!"_

The remnants of the base personnel snapped to alertness and started moving, helping wounded men and heading toward the doors. Jamison jerked his thumb at a series of lockers on the wall. "We've got climbing ropes stored in there. Nab some." He turned to Lucas, who was experimenting with his mangled leg. "Spartan, two more questions. Does that armor have shields?"

Lucas shook his head. "Negative. ONI had the specs for MJOLNIR armor, but not enough funding for all the bells and whistles. It's got everything else though. Now then, you going to ask me that second question, or should I get going?" He tapped his hand on the rifle's barrel. "First to the party and all that."

A thin-lipped smile tugged at the captain's drawn face. "Only one more. You mentioned having an armor ability. I'd like to see it."

The Spartan shrugged bashfully. "Well…I kind of…lost it. After we went down the shaft my armor automatically disengaged it so it could divert more power to the automated biofoam injectors and stimulants."

"But what is it?"

"Specialised jet-pack, designed for support combat. Rotary thrusters. Effective at maneuvering around the battlefield." He halted his rote description, and then asked, "Why?"

"We're going to need it. Come show me."

In the corridors outside the Communications Centre, the humans and Elites gathered. There were about thirty of them, most of them untrained. A few MPs and marines checked their assault rifles, and eyed the passage ahead nervously. Jamison stood waiting, sidearm in hand. His leg had been freshly bandaged. Lucas limped past them, into the darkness. They heard him rustling about, and then he came stomping back.

He held a strange object in his hands, an angular back-pack made of metal. Several circular tubes and pores poked out of it. A pair of hooded jets jutted from the fuselage. There were straps for the waist and shoulders. The word "UNSC" was engraved on the back.

Lucas held it up for everyone to see. "It's a variant of the T-PACK. My armor gives it power but it can run on its own juice for about ten minutes. Now then, Captain, I'm sure you didn't want this because you're all members of the Jetpack Devotees Club. What's it for?"

Jamison walked forward and took the jetpack from the Spartan. "One of us will be using it, as part of the plan. Make sure you instruct that person, whoever they are. Now then. Corporal Saunders-did you find the flamethrower? I could have sworn I saw one-"

A wizened man with a lined face shook his head. "That turned out to be a grav-pump. We are bone dry on weapons, sir. Only stuff we got is what you see here."

The captain sighed. "Damn. OK, people, check your charges and form up. We're making a stop at the armory. Let's hope it's well stocked."

There was a bio-thumbprint lock on the armory door, which was painted a tasteful red. Jamison pulled off his glove and inserted the digit. The light winked green, and the portal swung back.

Racks and shelves greeted them, crammed with weapons and ammo boxes. Mechanical outlets emerged from ports in the wall as the marines walked by, revealing different varieties of submachine guns. The numerous aisles were marked according to weapon type. Squinting in the dim light, Horatio entered the one marked LONG-RANGE ORDNANCE. Other marines moved about, rummaging through ammunition canisters to reload their weapons.

Horatio saw replacement sniper rifles-more SASRs such as Lucas's, even the old 99C-S2AM variant. But what he needed were bullets-he was down to three rounds left in the rifle. Spotting a rectangular box on a higher shelf, he reached up and flipped off the lid. The glint of the pointed ammunition brought a smile to his lips. Grabbing two handfuls, he pulled his hands down and sprinkled them into a belt satchel. The rest he used to reload-the bolt snapped back with a satisfying _click._

He stepped back and sighted through the scope. He whipped around and dropped into a crouch, the long barrel out before him. The pleasure he felt was intense. For too long he had been using his beloved weapon as an ugly club, not befitting its use. Now, things were about to change. A moment later, he heard a voice holler, "Hey! Over here!" He exited the aisle.

On the far side of the room, Orville had found another door. It was smaller, and painted black. The words AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY were marked on the cool metal. Jamison approached it, and cocked an eyebrow. "Now what might this be?" he murmured. "I've never seen this." He once again keyed the lock, but this time it bleeped red. The captain snorted angrily. "CO of this damn base and I'm not allowed in? Spartan, get over here." Lucas lumbered over. "Yeah?"

Jamison jabbed a finger at the door. "This door won't open. Do you have clearance?"

"Well, no…" Lucas stepped back, and delivered a swift kick to the metal, crumpling it and causing it to fall inward. "But this works just as well." The Spartan entered the room beyond. Looking impressed, the others followed.

It was sparsely furnished-only a few cases were bolted to the walls. Keycards were placed beside the cases. Orville darted past Lucas to a particularly lengthy one, and swiped the card in the code lock. The case popped open with a hiss.

Inside was a green-grey energy weapon, with a red stripe painted along one side. A bracing handle was propped up the front, and a bulky trigger guard was placed behind it. In between two slabs of metal was a cylindrical battery, painted grey and yellow. Orville whistled reverently and pulled it free of the clips holding it in place. "I've never gotten my hands on one of these…" He placed it on his shoulder with a grunt. His fuel rod gun was tossed aside.

Horatio was fascinated by the new weapon. "What is it?" He had seen them a few times during the fighting on Earth, but hadn't identified it.

"Weapon/Anti-Vehicle Model 6 Grindell/Galilean Nonlinear Rifle, "Lucas stated in a bored tone. "Scientists cracked the energy weapon scheme 'bout a year ago. You're gonna want these, "he added, grabbing a few power cells from the case. "Extra focus chargers. When you run out." He tossed them to Orville, who nodded thanks.

Jamison was pleased. "A spartan laser would do wonders for our chances. See what else there is." He bent down, and grinned. "I found the flamethrower." He pulled the case out, and lugged it through the door.

Horatio scanned the cases left, hoping to find something of worth. Unfortunately, most of them were just prototype armor components and computer data. None of that would help them. But perhaps there would be a replacement for his battered needle rifle…

He stepped out of the room, and scanned the weapon racks. A likely-looking rifle caught his eye, and he pulled it out. It looked similar to a BR, but had a green-grey scope and carried only 12 bullets in each clip. The words _Designated Marksman Rifle_ were etched on the barrel. Horatio nodded happily, and sheathed it on his back, grabbing a few extra ammo clips.

Jamison stood near the exit, case in one hand and pistol in the other. His sharp eyes appraised the group of humans. _Armed and dangerous doesn't even cover it, _he thought to himself. "Time to go, "he said.

Once again, the team gathered in the lobby, not far from the shaft. The roof here was high, disappearing into the musty blackness. Jamison stroked his chin. "I'll need a volunteer. Who here has spent time in zero-gee ops recently?"

Most of them shook their heads; a few shrugged doubtfully. Horatio considered his chances of not getting the job, and remembered just how well his luck had been lately. _Bound to happen sooner or later, _he thought glumly, and raised his hand. Everyone turned to look at him. "I have, "he muttered. "On the _Lima."_

The captain looked at him with a new respect. "I heard about that-you boys did a fine job of getting out intact. Step forward, son."

Once there, Jamison began fitting the jetpack onto his shoulders. Steel loops bit into his shoulders, but the apparatus held together. Lucas watched the process with a critical eye. "Reverse that port thruster and extend the baffles, "he commanded. "Else you'll burn his ass to bits." Horatio gulped.

"A pleasant image, "the captain murmured. Once he was finished, he stepped back. "Right, Spartan. Give him a crash course, no pun intended."

Lucas grabbed Horatio's hands in a lightning-fast movement and set them to the grips on the sides of the jetpack. There were buttons on those grips. "Those buttons activate the jetpack. But twist that dial there, and it goes into extended burn. Good for about thirty seconds, but watch it else you'll be running out of fuel quicker than a Grunt runs out of courage. But for the purposes of this mission, you'll want to do that."

Horatio twitched. "And what exactly _is _my job?"

Jamison opened the case he had brought, and removed the flamethrower inside. An M7O57 model, a snarling shark's head was emblazoned on the sides of the pilot light. "It's crazy, but it'll work at a stretch. You're gonna spook the hive, Private. Fly around, fry their nests. Once they've woken up, get out of there and we'll engage them. The queen will show her face soon after that."

Horatio snorted with disgust. He was sick and tired of half-assed plans. It was almost like being inside an action movie. But what choice did he have? "Using a jetpack to unleash flaming hell on a hive full of homicidal insects?" He sighed, and shrugged. "It'll look good on my epitaph."

Jamison clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You do this, private, and I'll make sure there's a promotion in it for you. The least I can do. Maybe even a medal."

_That's comforting._

The captain faced the others. "OK, men. Move out to the shaft. These two just need a second to fix to finalise things. Stay alert." The group marched off, around the corner.

It was just him and the Spartan. Suddenly, he was aware of Lucas' ominous presence. The faceless golden visor creeped him out-who knew what the man was thinking? The silence was deafening. In an effort to break the silence, he said, "So…uh, you're a Spartan. How's that working out for you?"

In later times, Horatio would mentally kick himself for saying that. The Spartan looked up from his work, was quiet. Then he said, "Pays the bills."

The tension was defused. The marine snorted a laugh. "Yeah, I'll bet it does. Seen much action?" These were not the queries of a gawking person-he'd swapped plenty of war stories in the past. But never with a Spartan.

Lucas shrugged. "Here and there. Mostly classified missions. Never with marines." A new, underlying tone came into his voice. "You ever seen other Spartans before? Like me, I mean?"

Horatio mentally reviewed his CSV-with the exception of a few Spartan-II's, he had never seen anyone like the young, grey-clad Lucas. "No. Never." For some reason, Lucas dropped his head, returned to calibrating the fuel jets. He seemed almost depressed; though with the helmet, it was hard to tell.

Then he remembered the object that had saved his life, back in the hive. "Wait…"

_The plasma grenades were lit up like globes of blue in the dark night. Fizzing quietly, they then exploded against the human bulwark with deafening bangs. Large chunks of the concrete barrier were tossed into the air, dropping to earth like petrified birds._

_Horatio shuddered at the noise, and clutched his rifle for support. The sound of the glowing alien bombs terrified him. They sounded like dying screams, to his ears. Of all those burned by the Covenant. Billions by now, the nineteenth year of the war running. _

_As much as he hated to admit it, things weren't looking good here on Miridem._

_He had been separated from his squad-a clever thrust of SpecOps Jackals had divided the company in half, and it was his luck that he'd been the sole person in his squad to go missing. They'd managed to push through the ambush, and set up shop near the Yurinsch River, but Covenant air support was tearing them to pieces. Six were left._

_The deep barks of the Elites were getting closer, and he felt panic creeping up his spine. He fired a prolonged burst over the wall. Where the hell were the other marines? Why weren't they providing support-_

_A gargantuan alien-bigger than he'd ever seen-vaulted over the barrier, gleaming blade in one hand. Screaming defiance, Horatio backpedaled quickly, his MA5B on full auto. Its shields drained quickly, but it refused to go down. With a sudden deft movement, it lunged and seized him around the throat. The wind rushed out of him, and he croaked weakly. The bastard's yellow eyes flared with cruel amusement. It didn't bother with the sword. The Elite chose to strangle him instead._

_The light was literally fading from his eyes. He couldn't believe he was going to die like this. In a war, death was synonymous with bullets and projectiles. Not squeezing alien hands-_

_Suddenly its grip slackened, and his vision returned. The alien was now looking past him, toward the river. Something new had arrived. He twisted around limply in the Elite's grip, so he could get a look._

_A figure, clad in armor of deepest blue, was striding up from the river bank. Water was sluicing off the contours of the armor-the man had come _from _the river. He must be hallucinating. Men don't just walk out of rivers. There were rules against that sort of thing._

_A huge assault rifle-an Army variant, from the look of it-was over the apparition's shoulder, but a jagged combat knife was gripped in one gauntleted hand. "Drop the marine, alien, "the man rumbled._

_The Elite snarled in reply. Horatio assumed, blearily, it was the Covenant equivalent of "up yours." The sword edged closer, and the crackling fibres began to scorch his hair. The vice-like grip had returned._

_The armored man shrugged. "Fine. Have it your way." He half-turned, then swung his arm around, frighteningly fast. The dagger moved like a grey streak._

_The Elite gaped, eyes centering on the knife handle embedded in its forebrain, and dropped to the ground without a word. Horatio quickly stepped away from the corpse, dusting himself off. The man moved closer. He was a giant; easily seven feet tall. As his mind cleared, he realised what the man was. A Spartan._

_But this one was different. All of the others he'd seen were clad in green armor, and were relatively standard in terms of appearance. This one was blue, and covered in numerous customized armor pieces. He even spotted a purple clamp-part of an Elite's combat harness-decorating one elbow. Everything about him screamed different._

_The Spartan nodded to him. "Watch yourself next time, marine, "he said roughly but kindly. "That one nearly had you."_

_Horatio nodded dumbly. "Uh. Th-thanks." Then he burst out: "Are you a Spartan?"_

_The man seemed amused. "Of a sort." He then glanced around. "Sounds like your company's headed this way; they must have beat the Jackals back." He retrieved his knife, cleaned and holstered it. "I'm off. But before I do, have a souvenir." He reached down to his belt, pulled out a grenade and handed it to Horatio._

_Before he left, he turned, and said, "Don't tell anyone you saw me. I'm playing this one quiet-the less anyone knows, the better." He began striding back down to the river. Just then, the pale yellow moon knifed through the clouds, and lit up the man's shoulder. It said: CARTER-259. Without a sound, he entered the midnight waters and disappeared._

_The marine just stared at the rippling waters, unable to believe what had just happened. Shouts now greeted him, the voices of his squad among them. Nestling the grenade away, he picked up his rifle and went to meet them._

Lucas nodded in fascination. "Definitely a Spartan-III. We were allowed limited customisation in the field. The type-twos weren't. Carter? Never heard of him. He must have been in Alpha or Beta."

Horatio shrugged. "I always wondered what happened to him. He gave me a grenade, you know, before he left. Used it to escape the Ether queen. Knew it was worth holding onto."

Lucas snorted a laugh. "Once it was bibles, now it's grenades…"

He flicked one last switch, and stepped back. "Right. It's been calibrated for your frame, but be careful with it. Don't end up like poor old Tony." He snickered to himself.

Horatio had no idea who that was, but his fate had obviously been painful. Gripping the curved handles, his thumbs hovering over the buttons, he pressed down.

_Click. _Several jets of amber flames, complete with coughing exhaust, billowed from the holes in the jetpack. The heat was intense, but manageable. Slowly, he rose above the ground. "Whoa!" He jerked back and forth.

"Stay calm!" Lucas called. "Orient yourself, or you'll hit something."

Horatio forced himself to calm down, and tried turning on the spot. It worked, and soon he was capable of moving, albeit slowly. Releasing the pressure on the buttons, he returned to earth. He grinned unashamedly. "I can see why you like it. Raining death on your enemies and all that."

Lucas strode over and turned a dial. "Don't get cocky, marine. With the real thing, there'll be insects and a flamethrower to get cozy with. Let's see how well you go." He picked up the support weapon in one huge hand and placed it in Horatio's hands. He grimaced. "It's damn heavy."

The Spartan shrugged. "You won't be holding it for long. One way or another. Give it a shot." He stepped back a short distance.

Pulling one hand away, and almost dislocating his arm with the weight of the flamethrower, he flicked the switch. The jetpack rumbled, and he began lifting again. The weapon's weight held him down, but he gradually gained height. "Clear the way, "he called down to Lucas. "It's about to become very warm." He chuckled at his inane joke, and pulled back the firing handle.

A jet of white-hot flame erupted from the nozzle, flaring like magnesium. He cringed away from the heat and light, but he slowly guided the weapon across the wall. When he was finished, a blackened trail was etched on the metal paneling. A few embers burned here and there. He exhaled quietly. Maybe his job wasn't so impossible. Of course, he knew something would go wrong. Something always did.

He returned to earth, and gratefully released the bulky flamethrower. "Thanks for the crash course, Lucas." It occurred to him that was the first time he'd used the Spartan's name.

"Consider yourself trained, "Lucas said warmly. He looked back the way they'd came. "I have to get into position. Good luck, marine." He held out a gauntleted hand.

Hesitantly, Horatio accepted the proffered hand, and shook it. Giving a final nod, the Spartan padded off, gauss rifle over shoulder. Horatio watched him leave, then went to join the others.

Mission Clock: 1842

If it was possible for a ship to move gingerly, that's what they did. Slowly, cautiously, _Silver Lining _edged out from behind the planetoid, only at half-power. Hodgkins leaned over the screen display of Lieutenant Olbano, his operations officer. "Anything?"

The young Brazilian man tapped a few keys and squinted, his forehead a mess of lines. "We've powered down, Captain. Only thing we've got running at top capacity is life-support. The techs have sealed off any radiation leaks, and bulkheads have been closed on the reactor core. If the Brutes find us, it'll be like finding the needle in the haystack."

"Good." The captain returned to his command chair, and threaded his fingers. "Push reactor strength to two-thirds. Lieutenant Patel, punch through this interference and get me _some _idea of where the bastards are. I want Archer rows F through J prepped, just in case. Activate every lead-lined pressure seal we have-the last thing we need is our nukes giving us away." He watched his bridge officers go about their tasks.

The carrier's engines were a dull orange-white, but the ship started moving back towards the planet. There was no sign of the enigmatic Covenant vessel, and that made him nervous. It was out there. Somewhere. If it did find them, there would be little chance of back-up. The Elites were God knows where, and the remaining human ships had gone to the edge of the system. Hodgkins didn't mind that. Less chance of anyone doing something heroic and stupid.

"How long until we enter the atmosphere?" he barked. Boll, the ship's AI, materialised again. He scratched his stubbly chin, and looked up at the captain. "Judging from our minimal thrust, turbulent conditions and the time needed to calibrate our trajectory…I would say twenty minutes. Unless, of course, you wish to accelerate."

Hodgkins laughed. "Was your memory core written with any common sense? Not only would we be giving away our position, Jamison wouldn't have time to evacuate. Think about it, you superintendent." _Superintendent _was a slang term for any AI that was simple-minded. Boll was anything but, but Hodgkins was in a foul mood.

Boll looked affronted. "There is no need to be insulting, captain, "he said, in a hurt tone. He withdrew a miniscule bottle of liquor, and chugged it down. "I was merely pointing out all of the available options."

The captain sighed. "I know. Sorry." On an afterthought, he asked, "Does that rotgut come in human size?"

Millions of kilometres away, the Brute vessel drifted through space, waiting for the return of the Sangheili scum. Their Shipmaster glared at the screens, willing them to light up with targeting data. Suddenly, one of his subordinate's consoles bleeped, and he marched over. "What is it?"

The Brute officer jabbed a thick finger at the screen. "I am reading a signal, chieftain. Faint, very faint. It must be one of the human ships. The vermin are returning to the surface."

A savage grin lit up the chieftain's face. "Proceed after them, slowly. Do not give us away. We will catch them in the atmosphere and burn them on a pyre."

On appearances, the Brute vessel continued to drift, but its course had subtly shifted. It was now following _Silver Lining._

Nervously, the first marine poked his head through the door leading into the shaft. The barrel of his rifle swept back and forth, then retracted. "Clear…for now."

Quietly, they filed in. The Elites led the way, as any psychic attack by the insects would not affect them. Jamison and Massad came next, then the others. Horatio, struggling under the weight of his jetpack and flamethrower, brought up the rear. The walls were still plastered with throbbing biomass, although several sections were scorched black from the grenade explosion. Upon seeing it, Horatio smiled with satisfaction.

Although the captain was in charge, he had deferred all combat command to Massad. He now directed the twenty-five strong band of marines and base personnel. "Form a circle, men, "he ordered tersely. "Guns trained on the nest-play by order of size. If you see anything purple, riddle it with holes. Whose got the ropes?"

A few pushed forward, holding bundles of cord. They began throwing them upward, trying to hook them onto something. Some failed to reach past the shaft. The burly Orville snorted and yanked a rope from a weedy naval rating's hands. "Gimme that, "he scorned, and, after a few swings, looped the grapnel on a metal spar at the top. A few marines clapped, and Orville took a mock bow. "Thank you, thank you. Please, no autographs."

Massad cuffed him none too gently, and then turned to Horatio. "Well, private. It's the moment of truth. Get started."

"Can't wait, "Horatio said scathingly. He flicked the dial on his jetpack, and hefted the M7O57 just as the jets began to rumble. The noise echoed dimly throughout the chamber. He just hoped it wouldn't wake the insects. His ascent begun, and all eyes were on him. Searching for a viable target, he found a tangle of nests damaged by the grenade blast. He almost felt sorry for them-things were about to get a whole lot warmer.

Floating, his hand came over the red button that would discharge the volatile flame. "Here goes nothing, "he said, and pressed it.

With a low _whoosh_, red-white fire billowed from the flamethrower's barrel. Coming into contact with the tentacles, they immediately came alight. A prolonged burst reduced the entire nest to nothing but cinders. He decided to do something unconventional. Spinning, he lit up the entire circumference of the shaft at that level. On all sides, roiling flares cast lurid red shadows on the walls.

He heard a squeal of pain, and swung around. An Ether, its translucent skin covered in horrific burns, mewled pitifully as it struggled to escape from a burning nest. Horatio laughed as it extricated itself from the next, tumbled down the shaft and hit the ground with a _splat. _Dimly, he heard someone retching.

The first wave had been deadly-but the flamethrower was running out of charge. The tank that held the superheated gel was already feeling lighter. He waited a few seconds, and then renewed his assault. The stench of charred biomass filled his nostrils, and he had a sudden urge to gag. As if to compliment this sudden thought, he wondered if the Brutes would have the stomach to try eating roast Ether. Perhaps he would ask them later on, he thought whimsically.

Although he was immune to the ethereal influences of the insects, he could still feel the pain in the room at the moment. Awkwardly, he comprehended that the Ethers not only felt pain on a physical level, but on a mental one as well. Good. That meant the queen, even untouched by the flame, would feel it.

The room was now filled not only with the roar of fire, but the perishing cries of the Ethers. They were tinny to the ear, and gave a very brief headache. Horatio almost couldn't believe it. After losing Akiro and Vedrich to them, they were now being wiped out by a simple flamethrower. It was almost too easy-

Something smashed into his back, and he felt cruel claws rip into his skin. One of the insects had latched on his back, just above the fuel jets. The added weight was pushing him downward. A few bullets pinged off the jetpack, and he cursed. "Not me, you bastards!" he yelled. The gunfire ceased. He would have to deal with his attacker alone.

Swinging his shoulders from side to side, he managed to dislodge the insect, which spun away and bumped the wall in front of him. It turned, snarling, and caught a stream of embers in the face. It tried to scream, and failed as its head melted. It dragged limply down the wall, globs of steaming flesh dripping.

But this temporary distraction had afforded the Ethers time to retaliate. Some had escaped the flames, and retreated to a higher level. There, they hissed and spat, radiating hatred. Soon they would strike, and Horatio would be in their way. It was time to bail out. But before he did…

He floated over to the far wall, amidst fireballs and vengeful insects, and looked for an opening. A lone tentacle-nest lay sprawled open, baked by the heat. He wedged the flamethrower inside it, and hoped it wouldn't fall. He had big plans for the weapon. If he had enough time.

He began ruffling through his pockets and buckles, looking for a stray plasma grenade. The trouble was, he didn't usually pick them up unless it was absolutely necessary. It was a bad habit that even years of slavery to a sergeant like Kyle hadn't erased. Right now, it was costing him bad. A frag grenade wouldn't work. He craned his neck downward, to face the group of humans taking potshots. "Anyone got a plasma grenade?" he called.

Dean broke away from the crowd, and extracted a blue orb from his belt. "Catch!" He tossed it upward.

Horatio watched it soar upward, and gravitated towards it, but as he reached out a hand, he felt a flaccid appendage shove him aside, and an Ether snatched the grenade out of the air. It emitted a high-pitched snigger, and began climbing up the walls out of reach. "Little shit!" Horatio snarled, and fumbled for his new rifle. "Come back here before I-"

It was at this moment that the thief began running its spindly feelers over the explosive, and accidentally brushed the activation rune. It began to glow with a ghostly light. Dumbfounded, the Ether stared at it, until a burst of gunfire from below drilled through its skull and the grenade dropped from its nerveless hands. And alighted upon the flamethrower's handle jutting from the wall.

He didn't even have time to think. Jamming his fingers down, he hit the firing studs and the jets petered out. He was twenty metres up in the air, and was horribly conscious of every single one. Perhaps that hadn't been such a good idea-

Plummeting downward, he just missed the fiery explosion. Yet more insectile screams reverberated off the walls. He felt some relief, but then heard the hissing noise of gelid embers cascading to earth. Even if the fall didn't kill him, the fire would. The first of them hit his back, burning through his fatigues. He screamed in pain.

When he hit the ground-painfully-all that filled his mind was the burning agony in his back. Rolling to smother the flames, the smell of scorched flesh and leather filling his nose, the immediate pain receded, but it still hurt like hell. He heard someone move over him, and press something cool to his back. "Damn it all, but these are some nasty burns! Takes a certain kind of lunatic to use a flamethrower. Don't worry, we'll have you back on your feet in no time, mate…"

But by then, he was unconscious.

Bullets and plasma arced upward, smashing into the nests. The enraged Ethers attempted to fight back, but were woefully outgunned. Their psychic ability was severely blunted when the hive was in pain, and thanks to the flamethrower explosion, there was plenty of that.

Jamison, pistol in hand, delivered practiced shots, remembering his basic training. He hit more wall then Ether, but every little bit helped. Massad was still directing them, as a medic saw to the wounded Private Zerba. The captain winced when seeing the horrific third-degree burns on the man's back. He would need skin grafts, but right now staying alive was the priority.

The floor was littered with the insect bodies, but they were showing no remorse as the humans gunned them down. More were retreating to the upper levels, but this made little difference. Suddenly, a new pulse of mental feeling echoed through the room. He saw a bulbous purple head burst from a nest and cast vitriolic hatred in his direction. The nodes had arrived. Almost immediately, he felt a leaden weight enter his head, and his grip slackened. He struggled to refocus, as did all of the other humans, save the one called Dean. "Don't give in marines, show 'em what we're made of!" Massad bawled.

Orville roared a hoarse battle cry, and hefted his new weapon. Pressing the thick green trigger, a low whine started and a dull red glow began to emanate from deep within the barrel, sending out a thin crimson laser. After a few seconds, the noise reached a crescendo and a brilliant beam of scarlet pulsed out of the nose. It bored a massive hole into the wall, incinerating countless insects and leaving angry red scorches on the walls.

The Elites had no problems either, pumping round after round into the insects. Their leader, Vine or something like that, pushed a button on his thigh, and a cartridge popped out of his armor. Reaching into it, he withdrew several curved discs with a blue rune in the middle. Touching the runes, he then threw them, frisbee-style.

They lit up like liquid fire, blinding white. Like the glow of an energy sword. They scythed through the air, and separated several insects from their torsos. Ragged pieces of tentacle dropped to the ground like limbs. Once stuck in the walls, they stayed there, emitting heat. After a few seconds, they exploded in starbursts of radiant plasma. The biomass simply melted away. Jamison couldn't help but shake his head in amazement. The Elites' technology was so advanced it was almost ridiculous. He couldn't wait until the treaty granting them plasma weaponry, energy shielding and Slipspace technology was signed. He wondered why they were being so cagey-

A huge pulse-bigger than he'd ever felt-rippled outwards. He actually flinched back as the hissing and spitting of the insects ceased. As if acting on some inaudible signal, they retreated back to their nests, wriggling back into the folds. All signs of aggression had disappeared. They seemed more rational than ever. It was ominous. Jamison checked the resonator in his hip pocket. The Spartan was only halfway up the other shaft.

A rumbling-a physical one this time-shook the walls. A few panicked marines spun in all directions, looking for a target. There was none. Then, abruptly, silence.

The screeching of torn metal heralded the arrival of a new foe. Long, whip-like tentacles with the approximate size and thickness of tree trunks burst out of the ventilation shaft's walls like serpents. They were a disgusting yellow-grey colour with ugly white blotches. Growths pulsed all over them like barnacles. Each one was tipped with a mop of silky white hairs, which looked like silk.

An unholy screech burst from the holes in the wall. It sounded like nails down a chalkboard, the breaking of glass and an air-raid siren all rolled into one. The result was an overwhelming wall of sound, one that invaded every section of one's consciousness. It was all they could do not to drop to the floor and curl up in an attempt to blunt the pain.

The tentacles were on them in seconds. One marine was snatched, screaming, into the air, crushed in the adamantine grip of the appendage. It twisted a few times, then hurled him against the wall. There was a sickening splat, and the man dropped to the floor, skull shattered. The offending tentacle curled up briefly, in a gesture of triumph.

Jamison's rage was stoked. Snarling, he emptied his clip in its direction. The other humans followed suit, stung into vengeful action. But the various bullets and other projectiles did nothing. The tough skin of the tentacles fended off the worst they had. All it did was repel them for a time. Then, when the group ran out of ammo, they struck like vipers.

One swung itself like a bludgeon, sending several men flying back to hit the wall. Another thundered into a base technician, and the man practically disappeared in a cloud of blood. Several more simply picked people up, and proceeded to toss them about like rag dolls. Few survived.

A sudden flash of incandescent light, and a tentacle flinched back, now a burning stump. The strapping marine, Orville, beat his chest with one hand. "How's the laser taste, you fuck?" He took aim again. Enraged, another tentacle torpedoed towards him. The marine turned, but he was too slow.

Just before the meaty limb came down, there was a blur of movement. Orville was tackled out of the way, seemingly by thin air. Then Jamison noticed a shimmer. And a blue-white blade flashed to life. It was the Elite assassin, Vine. The alien spread its mandibles in a vicious grin and stabbed downward.

The plasma sword knifed through the tentacle like it was butter-but nothing seemed to happen. Frowning, the Elite prepared to stab again but he waited too long. Yet another tentacle wrapped around his waist, and plucked him off the ground. It began retracting towards the hole it issued from, but it soon cringed with pain. Vine sawed into its flesh with his sword, undaunted by his current predicament. "Hellspawn! Feel the sting of my blade-"

At this moment the tentacle rallied itself, and retreated back through the hole, a mass of rushing flesh. The Elite twisted around, uttered an oath, deactivated his sword and ducked his head as he disappeared into the jagged opening. The alien was gone, and most likely dead. It was hard to imagine any other result.

Meanwhile, the slaughter continued. Not many humans were still on their feet. Massad, like some titan, stood defiant, pumping lead into the whipping tentacles. Pulling a grenade from his belt, he tossed it overarm into one of the holes. It exploded, and chunks of smoking flesh burst from the hole. There was another supersonic cry. The queen had to be in there.

Jamison had watched Vine's performance, and he knew that the Elites were their best chance of surviving at the current time. Ducking low, he ran to the other side of the room. The remaining two Sangheili were crouched in the shadows, jabbering at each other in their harsh native language. The loss of their leader seemed to have left them indecisive. They looked up as he approached. One had an emblem of a tendril on his chest-plate. Another had a creeper tattoo on his forehead.

The captain pointed back the way he had came. "You two, I need you to distract the queen. You're quick enough to do it, but we can't keep up for shit. We need time to regroup. Understood?"

One shook its head. "Vine has gone, "he growled. "We cannot act." His companion grunted agreement.

Jamison rolled his eyes in despair. Surely they couldn't be this stupid. "The hell you won't. Do you want to live, split-chin? Then get off your extraterrestrial ass and do something, damnit! I thought you were supposed to be warriors."

They still looked unsure. "But-"

With a flourish, Jamison pulled out his pistol and jammed it against the alien's head. They both snarled in surprise, but the captain didn't care. "I said _up. _Unless you want a bullet in your brainpan, you'll do as I say." His hand quivered slightly. The Elite could in all likelihood kill him at a moment's notice, but he hoped he wouldn't consider this thought.

After a few seconds, the Elite snorted angrily and stood up straight. "You will regret this, human."

Jamison offered him a beatific smile. "No doubt. Now move." The pair of aliens drew their swords, and entered the fray.

As soon as they did, he had to admit the Elites knew their stuff. All shades of reluctance disappeared, replaced by ruthless competence. Even rudderless, the aliens dealt out deadly revenge.

The pair split off, veering in opposite directions. Tendril charged headlong at a tentacle that was threatening to crash into a knot of marines, holstered his blade and tapped a button on his wrist. As before with Coil, his fists lit up like green mauls, and he delivered a devastating uppercut to the tentacle's tip. Blood and meat sprayed, followed by a psychic yowl of pain. It retaliated with a savage thrust, but the lithe Elite simply leapt it, like a skipping rope. He linked his massive hands, and brought them down like a hammer. Bone and muscle snapped like twigs. A tremendous shaking and howling filled the room. The queen had been hurt.

Creeper tossed a plasma grenade, and it hit the wall, sparked blue and exploded. Showers of actinic plasma rained down on a tentacle below. It spasmed, and went after him like a battering ram. The Ossoona dropped to one knee and the limb passed over his head, inches away from shattering his skull. With a roar, Creeper thrust his sword upward, spearing it like a fish. But before it could jerk away, the Elite pulled it out, grabbed the tentacle tip and folded it against the first part he'd stabbed. Then, he thrusted again. The result was a bent limb, skewered by the glowing blade. As a finishing move, Creeper grabbed the hilt in both hands and shoved the entire assembly into the wall. The tentacle could not move, rooted in place. With a satisfied nod, the Elite pulled out a plasma rifle and searched for another target.

The humans had retreated by this time, dragging their wounded back to the safety of the door. Some had dropped their guard, to stare in open awe of the Elites and their elegant dances of death. Orville, a nasty gash weeping blood on his forehead, shook his head mutely. "Fuck me, "he muttered.

Jamison was pleased. The Elites had done their job. All he had to do now was-

In a sudden moment, the captain was horribly aware that he was the last remaining human standing in the centre of the room. He had to get to safety. He turned and sprinted for the alcove. Then, with a whistling noise, a tentacle slammed in front of him like a roadblock. With a yelp, he tripped over it and fell, cracking his head on the floor. His ankle felt worse though-like it had collided with a slab of concrete. It was fractured, possibly broken. Shoving aside the fiery pain, he got up and moved as fast as he could. He almost vomited from the agony, but swallowed it down.

A slithering noise, and something wrapped itself around his leg. No prizes for guessing what it was. He shouted in alarm, and lunged forward. Falling a few metres short of the others. Massad bulled through the crowd and threw out a nut-brown hand to him. "Grab it!"

Jamison tried, but the tentacle was inexorably pulling him back. If he could get a hand to his sidearm, maybe he could shoot it. He flailed his other leg, trying to kick the offending limb away. "Cut the damn thing!" he bellowed.

The tattooed marine, the one named Dean, moved forward and yanked a cruel-edged combat knife from his vest. Diving beside him, he sliced through the tentacle's flesh-or tried to. It was like using a dull axe to cut through ironwood. And all the while, the appendage continued to pull him back. Three more pairs of hands tried to keep the captain in place. A tremendous rattling echoed along the tentacle's length, like some sort of psychic frustration. Jamison gasped with pain-he felt like his foot was going to tear off.

Then a shadow fell over them. Creeper, his face as grim as a winter blizzard, aimed the plasma rifle and discharged bolt after bolt into the grey-yellow flesh. The smell of cooked meat filled the air, and the humans gagged. Eventually, with a furious bulging of muscle, the tentacle loosed its grip and retracted.

The captain exhaled, straightened his hat, and laughed shakily. He got up slowly, and rubbed his injured leg. " Well, that was close." Turning to the Elite, Creeper, he nodded crisply. "Not bad work. Thanks." The alien's only reply was a narrowing of the eyes, as if seeking a hidden insult. He clenched the plasma rifle tightly in his hands. On closer inspection, it was not that selfsame weapon. This one was bigger, had a smooth head akin to a human assault rifle and an extremely small stock. Put simply, it looked like a meaner version of the standard Type-25. "What is that-"

Out of nowhere-or so it seemed-another tentacle bulled the Elite aside, and sent him spinning to the floor. This time, it moved like lightning. Curling about Jamison's waist, it plucked him, shouting, into the air.

"Damn."

Lucas-G179 grunted, wriggled his shoulders to make more room, and continued his torturously slow ascent up the shaft. Scraping metal echoed, and a few sparks lit up the darkness. He'd had to break his rifle in half along the joint, because it wouldn't fit inside. His armor was proving to be an extreme nuisance. To say nothing of his wounded leg. The Spartan almost wished he'd taken it off.

At that thought, he inwardly snorted. Now wasn't _that _the sad truth? Increasingly, Lucas felt that his suit wasn't just protection against plasma. It was a prison-a suffocating stricture that nipped at him, day by day. The more he thought about it, the worse it became. Put simply, Lucas wanted out.

A Spartan wasn't just something you could walk away from. He understood that. And back in the days of Team Kukri, being part of a unit, he had been fine with it. Fighting for the soldier at your side-that was a worthy cause. It waved all the right banners. Besides, he'd trained with them since childhood. He'd have rather lost an arm than have them die. But they had anyway.

Now he was…what? Some covert operative, lurking in the shadows. Sneak missions, double-dealing and state secrets were his trade now. He'd gladly trade it for a shot at the Covenant. While he climbed, he idly fantasised about going AWOL, losing the armor and enlisting in the UNSC Marine Corps. There were decent men there-like that dark-skinned one, Zerba. Knew his stuff. It couldn't be worse than what he was doing now.

Speaking of which. He shoved a hand up to his helmet, tapped a button. A NAV marker materialised on his HUD. He wasn't far now. Then he could introduce the queen to a few choice rounds, and they could get the hell out of here. Back to some honest-to-good combat. And who knew? Maybe he'd get off this planet, and back to something more palatable.

_Things might get better? What a fascinating idea. While we're at it, maybe we'll teach synchronised swimming to Hunters._

Lucas would continue with his missions, as he received them. Do his duty and all that jazz. But his burgeoning frustration would not be denied. If Fate didn't give him a break-soon-then he would take matters into his own hands. And from that, would stem some imminent violence.

The tentacle had a vice-like grip around his waist, and was crushing the life out of him. Jamison struggled, and tried to do something, anything, but his lungs felt like cushions that had popped. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision. He tried to feel for his pistol, on his belt somewhere. Then he remembered that he'd dropped it, when the first one had gotten his leg.

Just as he was about to pass out from the pressure, something brushed his head and he looked up. One of the zip lines they'd thrown at the beginning of this shitstorm was just above his shoulder. Maybe he could escape. If he could get out of this grip…

He looked down, and saw the despairing faces of Massad and the others. "What are you waiting for?" Jamison wheezed, careful not to use up all of his air. "Shoot it!"

The master sergeant shook his head. "But sir-"

"_Just do it, _you miserable bastard!" He was fast running out of patience-and breath.

Looking sheepish, Massad and several others opened fire. Bullets sparked off the walls, and the tentacle twisted and ducked, trying to dodge them. The captain was tossed about like a rag doll, but his captor refused to give him up. Slowly, however, the thing around his waist loosened, and he lunged for the rope. The tentacle, slippery with sweat from its exertions, couldn't keep hold onto him. It immediately tried to reclaim him, but a jarring shot smacked it to one side. Somebody had grabbed Zerba's sniper rifle.

He had escaped, but was now dangling above the ground. He gulped, and tried to keep still as gunfire lit up the shaft. There had to be a way to help them somehow. Besides, there was only-he checked his wristpad-around twenty-five minutes left until Armageddon. Time was running out. He looked up.

Just on the rim of the shaft, he could see the dark block that had contained the grappling ropes. It must have been heavy-at least five tons. The immediate thought that arrived he quickly banished. It would get others killed.

_Not if you warn them, _another voice argued.

"Fucking-" He swore, and started climbing upward. It was not easy. His training had been sometime past, and he mostly functioned as a commander, rather than a foot soldier. With any luck, he would be able to reprise his proper role soon enough. For now, he took the sweating and straining muscles in his stride. As much as that was possible.

After reaching the top (feeling half-dead), Jamison scrabbled over to the box, arms numb. Shoving his body against the metal cube, he took one last look below, spotted the lone tentacle, and heaved. "Watch out!" Grinding it along the rim, he gave it a final shove and it fell, dropping with the graceless weight of a brick.

With a mighty _sprack_ it came down upon the tentacle like a hammer. It may have had extraordinary resilience against projectiles, but the sheer weight of the cube crushed it like an insect. Bones and muscle snapped, and the entire appendage thrashed weakly on the floor, pinned down and a spreading puddle of green-brown blood beneath it. Jamison laughed in sheer relief. His gambit had worked. Standing upright, he leapt out into the air and clung to the zipline. Rappeling down, the captain hobbled over to his men.

They were looking at him with a combination of awe and disbelief. Massad stepped forward, his MA5K pointed at the ground. He cleared his throat. "Sir, with balls like that, you ought to wrestle Brutes for your paycheck."

Jamison offered a tired smile and shook his head. "Must be the adrenaline, sergeant. Looks like we're clear of those damned tentacles. Gather 'em up and we can-"

A _second _rumbling shook the room, knocking everyone to the ground. They all looked towards the wall where the tentacles had issued. Even now, the few tentacles stranded about the room were slithering back into the wall. More pieces of grating were falling off, as if there was an earthquake. Layered under that was a paranormal roaring, a mind-blasting sound that was climbing in pitch every second. It made you want to tear out your brains, just to be rid of the awful pressure. The marines screamed in unison, rolling in agony. Jamison clenched his teeth and tried to fight it, but it was impossible. With a final bang, the entire wall fell off.

The queen emerged from the interior.

It possessed no feminine qualities, no natural grace or refinement. It was a shapeless mass of flesh, popping and bubbling as muscles rippled underneath the chalky skin. Bulbous warts and growths covered it like mushrooms growing in a field. Flat, rippling pads of oily flesh acted as propellers. From its back, there was a cluster of fresh tentacles, long as fire hoses. That it had managed to fit inside the walls was an amazing feat.

The face, however, was something out of Hell's own brochure. A splayed mouth, drooping grotesquely, crammed with razor jags of teeth that clacked with fury. Viscous saliva dripped from it. Eyes, shiny black and pulsing with red veins, blazed hypnotically. The queen's skull was recessed into the body, making it look like a hunchback. The entire ensemble was repulsive. It was all they could do not to tear their eyes away.

Moving slowly, the queen exited its berth, crashing to the floor. It was possible to see its former lair, which was crammed with biomass, egg-sacs and alien slime. Protruding from one of the sacs was something long and pointed. A legbone, from one of its victims. Here and there, more bits of anatomy were scattered. A human skull sat silently, mouth open in an eternal scream. Jamison fought the urge to vomit, again.

Massad snarled, an animal noise, and opened fire. Moving like greased lightning, one of the tentacles whipped forward and knocked the gun out of his hand. Massad stepped back, his face pale. The others were chary to do the same.

The queen suddenly roared-and it was like a melon bursting open. The maw opened, impossibly wide, and flecks of drool splattered everywhere. A barbed tongue thrashed inside the mouth, anticipating the slaughter to come. Slobbering, the queen moved inexorably forward. The captain swallowed. Only one thing would save their lives now.

Jamison stepped forward, pistol drawn. The psychic assault was still crushing, but he had fought off the worst of it. "Get out of here, all of you!" He slid another magazine into the chamber. "I'll buy you some time."

"No goddamn way, sir, "Massad said hotly. "We can take this-"

The captain whirled on him. "I said fucking go, Massad! I'll be damned if all of you bastards die because of my not doing anything. You're worth far more than me, now leave." He turned away, while the others looked on defeatedly. Eventually, Massad saluted stiffly. "Yes sir. We'll get ourselves away." He pulled out a compact SMG from his trouser pocket and handed it to the captain. "Much more effective, sir."

Jamison nodded. "Make sure you do. If you see the Spartan, tell him the plan's off and to get out. Also, tell ONI that I'll be back to haunt them." Massad chuckled once, and then gathered his men. They made a dash for the ladder, carrying Zerba with them. After a moment, the Elites followed, acting as rearguard.

A tentacle made to halt them, but Jamison pulled the trigger on his SMG. Bullets sprayed, and riddled the queen's skin with black holes. Growling with discomfort, it refocused upon him and issued another mental blast. It dropped him to his knees, a spike drilling through his head. He kept firing, though the bullets went wide and missed. Willing himself, Jamison lifted his head. Meeting the creature's eyes.

And there was a connection. Briefly, but making a lasting impression. Time proceeded normally, but inside the mind, it lasted far longer. In that moment, Jamison understood something of the psychic link. It was give-and-take. He got something in return. A series of rough memories and images.

Life beginning, but where? Nowhere natural, no, beginning inside a...tube? Container? Yes, a tube. Studied by the pale-faced inquisitors. The Runners? Yes, something like that. Released, work commencing. Making more of itself, lesser copies. Creating a domain, not the tubes. Tests, endless tests and experiments. Amongst its own kind, amongst more of the Runners. Bleeding, hurting, but always more. Time passing-no, wait, no time. No concept of that. Only white walls and glass. Wavy glass filled with sparks and light.

And pain. Still remembered, even after all this-no, not time. Nothing like that.

Then…other things. Like them, and yet unlike them. The things of green and brown. The ones the Runners called-what was it? The fast water. The ones that devoured all, even itself. Anything that lived, breathed. More pain, but not Runners this time. Sharp limbs and tentacles. A Mind, guiding all of it. A vast web, and the Runners were flies in it.

But power over them, not there before. In the past-no, that was time, which was not. Nothing like that. Power against the Mind, weakening it. Making the fast water less able. Slowing it down. Confounding it. Letting the Runners use their white fire. To purify. Numerous conflicts, but surviving each. But many children perishing. Children of everything, not just theirs.

Then…blackness. Points of white in a blackness. One bigger, and red. Named, yes. Gethrii, or so said the Runners. Runners going there, building. Building what? Not known. But done over a long period of-no, not time. Nothing like that. What were they building? Not known. All over the red, though. Deep in the dirt. Then the Runners left.

But they had stayed. Locked into more black, but without the points. Deep, with few more of itself. Sealed to the rest of it. Falling into a sleep, one that went for a long-not time. Nothing like that.

Then, awakening. White, piercing the black. Strange new beings, pink of flesh. Clad in midnight, secretive colours. More tubes and white walls. Lethargy. Quiet.

Then, noise and light. Even more new beings. Ones with hair and fang, leading smaller ones. Wielding weapons that cast blue and green fire. Using complex machines. Locking into combat with the pink beings. Screams, death. They had not seen it for a long-not time. Nothing like that.

Carelessness. By the pink ones. Escaping the tubes, taking vengeance on the ones that inflicted pain. Satisfaction of tearing into warm flesh. Tasting the red liquid that poured out of the bodies. And from that sip, knowledge.

What followed was irrelevant. With the first taste of blood, they had known all there was to known. With each newly slain-human?-more information. More power over them. And this one, staring at it, was known to it. The collective whirred, neurons sparking. Drawing on assembled knowledge, gathered from the hive.

_Jared Jamison. Captain. Sentinel Base. Service number 26683-16439-JJ. Mars. 2520._

_I see you._

The captain reeled from that cold, mental message. Lances of pain stabbed through his head, sending his vision into a multicoloured blur. He had trouble breathing. His heart rate sped up, until it felt like a hammer upon an anvil inside his chest. The gun dropped from his numb fingers.

He heard the dripping breath of the queen close in. Shutting his eyes, he waited for the grisly end. At least, maybe Massad and the others would make it out. Remembering something, he giggled to himself. _Sorry about the non-promotion, Zerba._

The massive mouth opened wide, the tongue spooling out like thread. It raised itself-

With an electric whipping noise, more of the Ossoona "silver stars" buried themselves in the queen's back. Fizzing quietly, they then detonated in a shower of burning plasma. The queen howled and convulsed in agony. Tiny blue spotfires licked at its hide, eating into flesh.

A stentorian voice roared out. "Creature!"

Jamison snapped his gaze behind the queen, to the blown-open wall and the nest. From the disgusting ooze and slime, a tall figure emerged. Clad in emerald armor, and wielding a glowing plasma blade. He was absolutely covered in the Ether queen's muck.

Ossoona Kathru Carlu', Vine, stepped onto the cold floor of the ventilation shaft and snarled a curse in Sangheili. "Get away from him, you _bitch." _He drew the blade back in a guard position.

Screeching, the queen flailed a tenatcle at him, but the Elite simply stepped to one side, and with a flick of his sword scored a scorched trail upon the skin, causing it to recoil in pain. "Is that the best you can do?"

Suddenly he pulled a plasma pistol from his belt and unloaded in the queen's direction until it overheated, green heat discharge steaming from the handle. Vine's eyes glowed with the light of someone who was seriously pissed. "I have used up all my patience, you bastard piece of excrement. Now, fight me properly, or slink back into your stinking hole." He raised the pistol again and set an overcharge.

The queen shrieked, and lunged at him with the tentacles. Vine dived to the right, and the writhing column of flesh missed him. Spring back up, he pulsed the trigger and a ball of plasma tore into them. Individually, the appendages would have been fine-but packed together and they all felt the blast. Flesh melted and dripped onto the floor. This caused them to flinch; only for a few seconds, but that was all the Ossoona needed. Then he was among them, sword flashing.

He skewered one, and by pulling his arm across his chest split it in half. Another tried to crash into his shoulder, but the Elite leaned back and it looped around his arm, to which he took exception. The plasma blade bit into his clavicle, but the burnt tentacle slipped away. Dropping to one knee and palming his sword, he wrestled a third in his hands and twisted, snapping the bone. Roaring with battle fervour, Vine looked for another target.

Quick as a flash, yet another tentacle curled about his waist and snatched the energy sword from its hook. The Ossoona gaped in disbelief, and made to attack, but a thick feeler bulled into him and sent him flying backward. His head cracked against the wall, and he groaned in a daze. Groggily, he raised the pistol and tried to fire it, but the weapon sparked and died. The battery had cut out. Vine got up, just as the previous tentacle seized him again, sending him back into the nest.

But it pulled out again, and slammed him up against the wall. The crack of ribs was audible above the bang. Mandibles gritted, Vine reached for a weapon, but found nothing. The deadly assassin had finally run out of charge. He would be dead without them.

That could not happen. Jamison, who had watched all of this, snatched the gun from the floor and fired. The bullets had no effect, but served as a distraction. The Ossoona summoned his strength, and swung the object he had grabbed whilst in the nest. A thigh bone.

So much force was used, the piece of anatomy shattered. The tentacle loosened, and Vine slid to the ground. The captain glared at him, willing him to get up and punish the queen.

Vine, meanwhile, felt like he had a drill going through his head. His chest was throbbing as well. To add the-he grimaced as he tried to remember the ludicrous human phrase-icing on the cake, he had lost his weapons. His hand brushed against his chest-plate, and his head snapped upward. There was still that. Pressing a button, the panel slid open and the object popped out. This would not be his preferred method of fighting-at all-but it wasn't as though he had a choice. Besides, he liked the weight of it in his hand.

Jamison stared with incredulity. This was a tableau for the ages. A dramatic scene to be immortalised. One one side, an alien Ether queen bristling with psychic power and combat appendages. And on the other, a battered and injured saurian. Holding a goddamned knife. It was not going to be pretty.

The queen had only three tentacles left functioning now, the others either destroyed or cut to pieces. They rustled, like branches, and wavered cautiously. Perhaps they were waiting for Vine to make the first move.

He was doing _something. _Pulling open panels on his armor, tapping buttons and rewiring circuits. His shields flickered, and went out. So did the glowing lights on his armor, and the plasma launcher on his arm. All he had for protection was the harness, now. Yet his hooves, armored, glowed a faint blue with ambient electricity. Straightening, he held out a hand to the Ether-and beckoned.

One tentacle swung forward, its edge blurred.

The Ossoona strafed to one side-extraordinarily fast. His feet actually made a thin scorched trail on the metal floor. Puffs of sizzling plasma residue erupted from his hooves. Pivoting, he ran straight at the queen. Another tentacle whipped to meet him, but he slid underneath it on one leg, like a baseball player from centuries ago. Springing back up, he accelerated. Now he was inside the tentacles' reach. Swinging back an arm, he thudded into the queen's body with a snarl of fury.

Normally this would have been negligible contact, but with the power systems of Vine's armor diverted to his hooves, it increased his momentum tenfold. Like a runaway freight train, the Elite crash-tackled the alien matriarch and sent them both skidding back. Jamison only just escaped being pulped as they collided with the far wall. His leg sent up a clamour of pain again.

Vine recovered first, and, right up in the queen's face, delivered a series of flat-palmed strikes. It hissed in displeasure, and lunged with its mouth. Massive fangs sunk into the Ossoona's chest, driving deep into the flesh. Vine's face paled, and his golden eyes flickered with sudden pain. His hands twitched. Grunting with satisfaction, the queen prepared to bite deeper and tear out his hearts.

Vine's head snapped forward like a bullet, and impacted on the Ether's forehead. Stunned, it sat back on its oily roller-tentacles, the teeth drawing out. The tongue poked out, and jetted forth like an angry eel. The Elite, quick as ever, swept his hand up. The one holding the knife.

The knife was well made, and did its job. The blood spurted out in ropes, and the alien screamed, a raw blast of air out of its mouth. A mental ululation hammered at the edges of Vine's mind. Trying to find a way in. Ignoring it, he tried to stab again. The queen reared up on its tentacles and struck him.

Like a ninepin, the Elite twisted through the air, his limbs appallingly slack. After hitting the ground, he sprawled in the pose of one who is unconscious. The Ossoona had played his last card. There was nothing to be done now. Jamison stumbled over to him, while the queen tried to spit out the knife pinning its tongue.

The captain put a hand to Vine's neck, and found a thready pulse. He was alive. For the next few minutes, anyway. A sudden wave of exhaustion overtook him and he slumped to the ground. He had no fight left. There was no other option but destruction. He would almost welcome it.

The Ether mother cast greedy eyes upon him and Vine. Having worked the knife loose, it knew there would be no more opposition. Slowly, it moved over to them. Jamison's eyelids fluttered, and he drew in his last breaths. Abruptly, a loud bang echoed through the room. A scrap of panelling fell to the floor. All eyes turned that way.

A helmet-clad head poked out, looked around and withdrew. A moment later, the rest of the body followed. Lucas, Spartan-III, pulled himself out of the shaft and jumped down. His impact sent spider web cracks through the metal floor. Raising his head, he pulled two spars of metal from his back and connected them. He pulled the bolt back on his gauss rifle and stood ready.

The queen sent psychic tendrils forward, trying to subdue the Spartan, but it had used up most of its stamina, and the hive had been badly damaged. Lucas shook it off like a mosquito, and aimed at its head. His voice came through his suit's aural transmitters. "Say goodnight, your majesty." He pulled the trigger.

A white-blue flash, and a slug of white-hot depleted uranium spat out of the barrel like a comet. The projectile hit the queen, and blew a massive hole in her already-battered flesh. Her cry was drowned out by the sound of _five more_ selfsame bullets riddling her with holes. Blood sprayed, like disgusting ichor.

Lucas was remorseless. After reloading, he continued to fire, sending chunks of meat through the air. A tentacle was blown to bits as a bullet drilled through it. The Spartan kept firing until he ran completely dry.

When he was finished, acrid smoke filled the room. The stench of cooked flesh was foul. And the malevolent light in the eyes of the alien queen, had faded. It was dead. The psychic presence had gone. It was like a weight had fallen from their shoulders. A low cry of mourning from the hive rang out like a bell.

Lucas walked over to Jamison, and offered him his hand. "Quite an exhibition, sir."

Accepting it, the captain grinned at him. "Damn good timing, Petty Officer. You got a mission timer in that suit of yours?"

The Spartan nodded. "We've got fifteen minutes left, captain. The others gone ahead, I take it?"

Jamison nodded, and pointed at the comatose Vine. "Carry him. Let's get out of here."


	18. Chapter 16

_Hey guys, sorry it's been a while, but my end-of-school exams have finally arrived and I haven't had a lot of free time for writing lately. Hope you understand. Unfortunately, this also means that my next update might be some time. But fear not, it's being written, albeit enjoy this one : ) bye for now! And thanks a lot for the spurt of reviews, really gave me a boost!_*Chapter Fifteen

EARTH TIME: 19th of October

UNSC Forward Base _Sentinel_

Gethrii

Mission Clock: 1903

Blurred light filled his vision, and he inhaled. The dusty air caused a fit of coughing, and he doubled over. A hand laid itself on his shoulder, and a worried voice inquired, "You alright, Private?"

Horatio gagged, and nodded shakily. "Can't complain." He flexed his shoulders, and a burning sting lanced up his back. He rubbed that part with his hands-it was plastered with bandages and med-salve. "On the other hand…"

The medic, a younger man with wispy hair, knelt down and injected something into his arm. Cool numbness followed. "That little stunt of your earned you some killer burns, scout. Some of the fuel ignited your fatigues. You'll be OK for now, but you'll need to see a real doctor ASAP-"

Grumbling, Horatio waved him away. "I hear you, cutter." Any overbearing attention from medics had always discomfited him. "What happened? I remember the hive going up." Looking around, he saw that they were in a brightly-lit corridor of the base. They must have left the maintenance paths. The group-fewer, now-stood waiting for something.

The medic shook his head in disbelief. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. We smoked most of the insects, then the queen got involved. Lost a lot of people. Then the Elites started laying the smackdown…basically, things went to shit really quick. We were lucky to make it out. At least…" he swallowed, "…some of us."

His attention was immediately caught. "What? Who was left behind?"

Boots rang on metal, and Massad walked over to him. "Awake, Private? On your feet. We don't have long to wait." He passed him his sniper rifle and the DMR. "All yours. Come on, now." He turned to go. Horatio asked, "Where's the captain?"

The sergeant sighed wearily. "Stayed behind. No sign of the Spartan, either. But we can't wait for them. Soon the base is going to be ashes." He raised his voice. "Let's move, people!"

Horatio found his voice. "No, sir."

Massad slowly turned, his face remote but carrying growing anger. "My ears must be playing up, marine, because I could have sworn I just heard you say no. I don't have time for your conscience bullshit, Zerba. The captain says we gotta go, we gotta go!" He glared at Horatio. "Now get moving or so help me I'll plant my boot up your insubordinate ass." His hand touched his weapon suggestively.

Horatio was silent. Then said, "I get that the captain wanted us to leave, Sarge. He wants us to make it out alive. It's a noble thing. But you know what isn't? Leaving the Spartan behind. When we know damn full well that he wasn't in that fight. Maybe you think he's just one of ONI's pet hounds, but he's not. If it were any of us, he wouldn't leave us. Are we going to do the same for him?"

The expressions on everyone's faces told him that they were all in agreement. He took this opportunity to push on. "You all remember Spartans, back during the war. They turned the tide wherever they fought. Gave us hope. Maybe he's not the Master Chief, or…087...or 093, "he said, recalling the designations of some of the other Spartan-II's he'd encountered. "But he's as much a soldier as any one of us. I'm not going, until he shows up." He planted himself firmly on the wall. A few other marines did the same.

Massad's fists clenched, but a helpless look came over his face. "Private…Zerba, it's not-"

A clanking from the ventilation passage; they all aimed their rifles. From the darkness, emerged a man in grey armor, supporting a groggy Elite. From behind them, a wounded and exhausted Captain Jared Jamison acted as rearguard. The Spartan looked at them all, and said in a deadpan tone, "Thanks for waiting, you pricks."

Horatio laughed-and then so did everybody else. The tension eased, and Massad saluted Lucas-G179 smartly. "Captain ordered us ahead, sir. You ready to blow this joint?"

The Spartan offered him a clenched fist. "Damn straight. Somebody help me with this Elite-he weighs almost as much as I do." Orville and Dean went to either side of him, and hefted him by the shoulders. Lucas moved forward, and let the captain out of the shaft.

He looked like absolute shit-but a proud grin was plastered on his face. "No fucking sacrifices today, sergeant. The hive's falling apart back there. Now then-" he checked his data pad-"we have twelve minutes on our timer. How's our exit look?"

Massad tapped his helmet. "I radioed to the rest of our boys. They've been evac'd by the Elites, and we have a dropship standing on station. But we do have one problem."

"What?" Jamison asked. The other marines were gearing up to leave.

The Arab man grimaced. "Elite recon spotted a dust cloud, about two klicks out. It's a Covenant patrol, sir, headed to check things out. Banshees are with them-if we don't disengage soon, our dropship will have to pull out. We'll be stranded, sir."

The captain stared at him. Then he asked, "What are we waiting for, then? _Go!" _Without another word he sprinted past him, pulling out his pistol. In another second the others were right behind him. Not long after that, they had to stop-Vine was still unconscious. Massad turned around with a snort of frustration. "Can't you wake the bastard up? We're on a deadline here!"

Casting a venomous glare in his direction, Creeper shoved the two marines aside and put his leader over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Orville, with a look of jealousy, hefted his spartan laser and moved forward. Now, they proceeded with pace, flying down the dusty corridors of the base. Horatio, Massad, Dean and Tendril took point.

"How close are we to the firing range?" Massad demanded after a few minutes. The big man, pushing fifty, was running out of breath. "It ain't far from there."

Jamison mopped his forehead. "Not far now. Up the next set of stairs-"

A plasma bolt slashed past his head and hit the wall, burning through it like rice paper. At the end of the corridor, a minor Brute fired erratically at them with a plasma rifle. Growling aggressively, it darted around the corner.

Or tried. Before the alien had even shifted its weight, Lucas had ripped a plasma grenade off Tendril's belt, primed it and sent it hurtling like a sapphire star. It travelled incredibly fast. Gaping, the Brute scraped at the grenade stuck to its arm but was powerless. The blast blew it around the corner, out of their sight. With a low whistle, Horatio moved forward, DMR cocked. "Dead, "he reported.

Tendril glared at Lucas. "Do not touch my armaments, demon. They are not yours to wield." The Spartan stared back at him-it was impossible to perceive expression from that visor. "Whatever you say, Petal."

"Tendril!"

"Whatever."

Now they knew that Covenant were in the base-and gunning for them. "Keep moving!" Jamison urged. "We're not far now, marines."

Rounding the corner, they were greeted with a mixed blessing-the stairs that led to the firing range, with a plasma turret topping the landing. A pair of Grunts manned the support weapon, and squealed with fright at the appearance of heavily armed marines. One fled through the access door, leaving its partner to its fate. The Grunt jammed down on the trigger and sprayed them with flashing plasma. "Fuck!" Horatio cursed, and returned fire. A huge hole blossomed in the wall next to the turret, but missed.

Massad tossed a grenade, and blew the unfortunate alien to bits. He was not pleased, however. "Great. Now they know we're coming. Lock and load, marines!" He moved up to the door, and prepared to palm the opening switch. Lucas and Tendril stood to either side, and prepared to cover the sergeant. The Spartan pulled a concussive grenade from his bandolier and popped the cap. "Now, sergeant, "he rumbled.

The door inched open, and he tossed it through the crack. There was a muffled boom, and surprised alien shouts. Lucas moved through. Horatio noticed that rather than a firearm, he pulled out a short knife from his boot. It had a grinning skull for a pommel. His stomach twisted in unease.

Helxus, the last remaining Jiralhanae officer in the strike force that had attacked the human stronghold, eyed the door that led deeper into the base with worry. Though a faithful soldier of the Prophets, he had no desire to face the white-skinned abominations again. His cousin, the stalwart Oltrus, had been torn to ribbons by those devils. Along with most of their Jiralhanae complement. It was he and a few scant others now. Waiting in this charnel house of a firing range.

Still, good news of a kind. A patrol had radioed in, and demanded a report from the adjutant-chieftain in charge, Rudarnus. Unfortunately, he had been killed, along with his second-in-command. Helxus found himself in reluctant command. It had taken some extensive questioning and checking of seniority protocols, but the patrol had verified his status and were on their way to relieve them.

So, when the Unggoy ran through the door screaming of humans storming through the base, his first reaction was to bolt. This damned base had cost them enough lives, and the prospect of deserting seemed rather attractive. Then, discipline kicked in. They did not have to go onto the offensive; merely repelling them would be sufficient. After killing the human piss-pots, the survivors could leave to join the main battle, which, according to the patrol, would commence within one unit.

He slipped the grenade launcher off his shoulder, and loaded a string of ammunition into the chamber. Glancing around, he could account for eight Unggoy, five Kig-Yar and two others of his kind. Not exactly terrifying. Helxus faced the door, and heard the boom of a human grenade. "Ready weapons!" he snarled, and hefted the brute shot. The Kig-Yar formed a phalanx around him, with his brothers on the flanks. The Unggoy scattered themselves like leaves. Brainless leaves.

The door began to slide open. Weapons charged-

-and a small orb bounced, clinked into the room. They all looked at it.

The grenade detonated, and sent a burning starburst of white light through their eyes. Blinded, Helxus roared with discomfort and stumbled backwards. An armored elbow slammed into his chest, and sent him sprawling. There was enough force in that blow to stop a Wraith tank. Fear shot through him. _Not a de-_

Then the boot came down on his skull and pulped it like a watermelon. Brains and bone chips scattered into the already corpse-infested room. Helxus' body sagged.

Horatio was the third person through the door, but quickly realised he was not needed. Indeed, perhaps none of them were. Not even the Elites. Lucas had been absent during the battle against the hive, but it was his time to shine. And he did, with extreme prejudice.

After killing the first Brute, he sidestepped and flung the knife. It sank into another Brute's forebrain, killing him instantly. Amazingly, he pulled out _another _knife from his chest and, springing forward, slit the last Brute's throat. Blood arced into the air, and the alien put hairy hands to the red ruin of its neck. Then it fell.

The marines opened fire, and smacked down some more of the Covenant warriors. But the Spartan never stopped moving. Yanking on a Jackal's arm, it snapped like a twig, and he lifted the alien bodily and threw it into the far wall. He stabbed two Grunts through the heart, and searched for another target.

One Jackal had recovered, and set its plasma pistol to overcharge. The weapon bucked as the ball of energy crackled towards the Spartan.

The man twisted-turning around completely-and flipped his knife to the other hand. Once he had finished his turn, he dropped to a crouch and thrust the blade into its ribs. Squawking, the alien toppled. A final Grunt ran for an exit door, trying to escape. Without even looking, Lucas pulled out his sidearm and put two rounds in its skull.

Silently, the rest of the group filed in, looking around with awe. Two squads of Covenant down, without so much as a clip of ammo expended. The Elites looked suitably impressed, even offering him the Spartan a cautious nod. Massad took it all in, and said quietly, "You've done this before."

Horatio recalled his stabbing of the Jackal. It had been near the upper left pectoral. Where a _human _heart was located.

Lucas nodded somberly. "Yeah." Was that a slight tremor in his voice?

Holstering the weapon, he waved the others forward. "We have nine minutes. Shake a leg!" Obediently, the marines moved forward, but Lucas retrieved his knife from the Jackal's body. His fist tightened around it, like it was a hated object.

Perhaps it was.

When they emerged back into the lobby of the base, they had six minutes left. "Help me with this, "Lucas said to Tendril, heading for the main doors, still without power. Together, they thrust them apart, and the others ran through. The pair quickly followed suit.

Now that the other marines had pulled back, the compound was truly a ghost town. Scraps of paper and flaked metal tumbled in the warm breeze, and discarded weapon emplacements were everywhere. Off in the distance, the wrecked hulk of their Scarab still stood, languishing with the sounds of creaking metal. The sun had started falling to the horizon, and the smell of sulphur was noxious in the air.

They had made it out-had survived. Despite their predicament, the humans took a moment to feel relief.

The Elite Tendril, on the other hand, decided against such luxuries. "Dropship, this is Ossoona Tendril of Dagger-hand Vine's cell, "he snapped into his radio. "We are outside the main building and are awaiting extraction. Respond, over."

The tinny voice of the pilot came through. _"Ossoona, this is Aero-Domo Gisku. I am approaching from the south perimeter. Get your companions to a suitable building, so that I may deploy the grav-lift. Be advised, Jiralhanae aircraft are inbound, and my support wing has departed. Endeavour to make this quick."_

"Affirmative, Gisku. We shall rendezvous at this edifice." He tagged a small residential unit with an orange marker, which would show up on the Phantom's controls. "Make haste." He turned to the others. "We need to-"

A high-pitched whine reached their ears, and they all looked towards the main gate. A lance of Banshees, coloured purple to signify Covenant allegiance, scudded towards them, fast and low. They must have raced ahead of the patrol, desperate to score some kills.

It didn't look good. With the exception of Orville's spartan laser, they didn't have anything to take down the powerful fliers. Maybe they'd get one or two, but eventually they'd be caught in a crossfire of plasma and fuel rod shot. And it was too late to seek cover. A marine, with eyes like saucers, squeaked, "What do we do? We're fucked!"

"What is all the noise?" They all turned, to see Vine's eyes flicker open. After Creeper set him down on the ground, he glared at them all. "It is hard enough to rest without your babbling-"

"Oh, give it a rest, Vine, "Horatio said sardonically. "You woke up just in time to see us all get toasted by these Banshees. You first."

The Ossoona frowned, squinted, saw the incoming attack craft. "Oh, that." He pulled a small detonator pad from his chest-plate and waited. For when they would be just above the Scarab. And when that moment came, he hit the button.

Triggering the reactor he had primed to explode. The entire platform went up in a roar, sending showers of blue-white plasma everywhere, incinerating the nearest buildings. One leg was blown off, and slammed through a power plant like a spear. The group had to shield their eyes from the light, it was that bright. The foul, acrid smell of high-yield plasma filled the air. It was worse than napalm.

The five Banshees didn't stand a chance. They were immolated instantly, turned to liquefied metal. The mangled, burning hulks crashed to the ground, one skidding to land only twenty feet away from them. The remains of the Brute pilot looked like charred meat.

They all turned to look at Vine with awe, but the Elite had lapsed back into unconsciousness. "Let him sleep it off. Come on, we haven't got long now."

With only four minutes, they were cutting it close. They hustled towards the extraction point, sprinting down an alleyway. A few more streets would put them at the base of the living quarters. Rounding the corner, Horatio stopped in his tracks.

Another square, this one less ornamental but filled with machinery, greeted them. The residential unit lay straight ahead, but standing in front of the door were two colossal Hunters, clad in burnished golden armor. According to battle reports, that meant they carried the older model of fuel rod gun, the one that fired projectile rounds. Not good. _Where the hell did they come from?_

He ducked back into the shadows of the alley. "Hunters. They're blocking the door, "he whispered. They all cursed-quietly. "We do NOT have time for this!" Massad stormed. He jabbed a finger at Orville. "Use that damn laser and take 'em out." The big man nodded, and began charging the heavy weapon.

But the Hunters had super-sensory hearing, and stiffened as they heard a faint sound. Turning towards the alleyway, one clanked forward cautiously. Upon seeing the human dart from the alleyway, it started charging.

And abruptly died as a narrow beam of scarlet energy bored through its midsection, effectively slicing it in half. Chunks of flesh and spine fragments rained down like leaves. The second Hunter roared in grief and fury, and fired its cannon in a quick burst. Though this would cause damage to its weapon, the beast didn't care.

Orville screamed as the green bolt collided with the wall next to him and sent him flying backwards to the ground. They dragged him back, and saw to their horror that his right arm had melted above the elbow. A medic immediately set upon him, injecting a sedative.

"Cover me!" snapped Horatio, and burst from the cover of the street. His DMR fired, and bullets pinged off the Hunter's armor. It snorted contempt and tried to fire again. But the gun needed to cool, and it fizzled out. Failing that, the alien lumbered forward, intent on smashing him with its heavy shield.

The others acted-tossing grenades, they managed to give the Hunter pause and let Horatio find an opening as it flinched. Orange gore splattered the ground, but the alien barely registered the impacts. Crouching low, its spines rustled and _flung themselves _at Horatio, like knives. He dived, and just missed being impaled. The Hunter rushed forward like a juggernaut.

A noise like the wind encased in a bottle, and Lucas' knife embedded itself in the alien's vulnerable back. It howled, and flailed around uselessly trying to dislodge it. Horatio emptied his clip into its face, while Massad, wielding Orville's laser, prepared to finish it.

In a sudden last act of fury the creature hurled its shield, trying to kill Horatio. The massive slab of metal frisbeed towards him, and he ducked just in time. It drove into the wall above his head, and his stomach heaved. A moment later he was emptying his guts on the pavement.

The laser fired, and the Hunter's upper torso simply blew apart, showering them with gobbets of raw meat. The remains fell to the ground, still twitching. Massad moved forward, his eyes slightly wild. "Clear!" he snapped. "Help Orville on his feet. You OK Zerba?"

Horatio pushed himself up, wiping his mouth. "Y-yeah. I think." His legs trembled like jelly. He had come close to death many times before, but that…that was too terrible to contemplate. Railroaded by a shield.

A rumbling entered the air, coming from seemingly everywhere. They all looked around, searching for the source, and found it. A small black dot, high against the sun, was heading their way and rapidly gaining size. It was _Silver Lining. _Coming to destroy the base.

Without even taking time to shout or yell, the group tore towards the building. The door was locked, but Lucas simply bulled through it, and stampeded up the stairwell. They were all in his wake, barely noticing the plasma-scorched walls or the bodies of off-duty marines and base personnel. Soon it would all be the same.

After climbing four floors, they emerged onto the roof. It was covered with antennae, air conditioning units and a few shanties set up for when marines wanted to play some cards, get some air or drink beer. In between other buildings, a lime-green Phantom powered towards them, running lights blaring bright. It had taken several hits from AA emplacements, and didn't look like it could take another big one.

Lucas checked his mission timer. Two minutes until impact. They all clustered underneath the dropship, and as soon as the lift was deployed, scrambled into it. Marines and Elites shot upward like seeds in a gale. Dean was muttering, "Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, "under his breath. Other marines looked to be in similar states of waiting-for-the-shit-to-hit-the-fan.

As for Horatio, his mind was cool and calm. They'd either get out, or they wouldn't. He could live with that. He entered the Phantom's troop bay, and squashed against the wall as marines crowded into it.

Creeper was the last up, supporting Vine. "Close it!" he shouted at the pilot, Gisku, who nodded. The hole sealed immediately. "Hang on, all of you!"

The dropship powered forward, and they all lurched back. Due to their extra gross of men, they were going slow. Too slow. Massad went to the cockpit and slapped the pilot's headrest. "Make it go faster, damnit!"

"A little quiet, "Gisku murmured without inflection, "would be appreciated." He flicked some switches, and the lights dimmed. The thrumming of the shielding on their flanks faded. The onboard engine was at full strength-wisps of plasma filled the hold.

A minute later, when they were a kilometer from the base, it happened.

There was a sonic boom, and _Silver Lining _entered the atmosphere. The human carrier swooped down, passing over the barren landscape. Flocks of hardy desert birds were set to shrieking terror as the massive, gunmetal-grey ship thundered towards the base. The MAC gun swiveled, pointed at the main building.

Hodgkins leaned over his weapon officer, the dour but still vigorous Lieutenant Frendlsson. A man of Scandinavian descent, he was the only member of the bridge crew to have been conscripted. A former freighter captain, his ship had been impounded on some charge or other. Before he could get resentful, they signed him up. No doubt the man did his job well, but as far as Frendlsson was concerned, he was doing time. Maybe one day he'd leave. Maybe not. Nobody would miss him much.

His fingers danced over the keys, checking the integrity of the magnetic coils and calculating possible firing vectors. "Thirty seconds, Captain. Then we either fire or bug out."

Hodgkins removed his cap, and wrung it in his hands. "You know what the answer is, Lieutenant. Prepare to fire on my command." He stepped back, and gazed out the front view port. Sentinel Base grew larger and larger.

He could see a small dot, moving away from the base. He prayed it was Jamison. If it wasn't…

"Ten seconds, "Frendlsson said, in that rock-steady voice of his. "Prepare for heat blast and shockwave. Boost reactor safeties, please." The last command typed in, his hand lingered over the red button that would fire the mighty weapon.

They were three kilometers from the perimeter fence. Hodgkins slammed his fists down. "Now!" he roared.

Frendlsson hit the button.

The weapon fired, and a noise not unlike a church bell sang out. Three depleted-uranium slugs, each ten metres long, sailed like divine spears towards the base. Its job done, _Silver Lining _swooped back into the air, climbing rapidly. The engine cones flared, and left a massive scorched trail on the earth.

With each MAC round, a massive crater was blown in the ground. Steel, concrete, wood-it all vaporised. The power plants, the weapon shops, the armories, the residential units, the COM towers-they were all consumed in the blast. The Covenant patrol had strayed too close, and were killed by the heat blast. All they saw was a blinding wall of white, and then nothing.

The main base resisted the first two rounds, but the third one did the trick. With a hellish rending of metal, the entire thing collapsed. A storm of metal whipped outwards, like a deadly hurricane. Debris was spread for miles in every direction. In later years, explorers would still be finding pieces of the base buried deep, and in the most unlikely places.

The group aboard the Phantom heard the impact, felt the heat wave, and were almost blinded by the light. A terrible rumbling and shaking was heard, and the grav-engine on the back flickered and sputtered. A terrible feeling of weightlessness filled them all.

But the dropship held. It beat the shockwave, and flew faster, further and escaped.

For a moment they all looked at each other, daring to believe that they had made it. Then a tremendous cheering and shouting filled the air. Marines grabbed each other in hugs, some even cried with relief. They had made it. Even the Elites looked happy. Vine woke up momentarily, rolled his eyes, and went back to sleep.

Massad barked with laughter and went back to them. "Pilot says we'll be meeting up with the others in ten minutes. The Elites have some sort of staging ground not far from here. After that we'll head to Futility Ridge. Time for some chop, marines!" They whooped, excited at the prospect of joining the real army.

He tapped Horatio on the shoulder. "Oh, Zerba. One more thing. Special note just for you. There are two Elites waiting for us up ahead, named Gerun and Dasa. You know 'em?"

Horatio could hardly believe it, but a huge grin stretched across his face. "Yeah. I know them."

Mission Clock: 1920

They were here. Or near enough.

General Bergen eyed the series of monitors and screens set up at the CP. In the room, about seventy square metres, technicians received reports, issued them to the TacCom and SatCom, and relayed orders. The space was filled with support pillars, generators, computers, radios, maps of the region and of course, heavily armed MPs. Recon drones, sensors and satellites had contributed to what he was looking at now.

He had to admit it didn't look good. Not that he would voice that impression. Too many Choppers by half. The trenches they had so carefully dug would be ravaged by the razor wheels and explosive bolts that the vehicles possessed. And plenty of Type-32's, outnumbering his Warthog platoons. He'd just have to hope that his gauss cannons and MGs would outstrip their armaments. Apparently members of the UNSC Ordnance Committee had been testing a new prototype turret weapon a few weeks ago, but whether they'd had time to make it work, was unknown. The testers had jumped planet about a week past.

Limited aircraft, which was a bonus. The Banshees, he surmised, would be sacrificed quickly, in order to target and destroy as many mortar emplacements as possible. He made a note on his personal data pad to bring more AA squads to guard them from aerial bombardment. As for the Phantoms, they had a surprising flexibility on the battlefield, capable of dropping troops and going on attack runs. The Brute commander would be foolish, however, to commit them all so early-he might be pressed to retreat.

That was an interesting thought. _Would _they fall back, if necessary? The Covenant military had been synonymous with zealotry and unthinking determination, but now that the Brutes were mostly leading them in the field, anything could happen. Why, he'd heard that on Skorrus, a hotly-contested planet only three light-years from Earth, a division of Brute soldiers had been infamous for stealing human tanks and refitting them with spiker cannons and incendiary turrets. That sort of thing was over now, but it was food for thought. He'd just have to wait and see.

He leaned back, grunted softly and reached into his pocket for a Sweet William cigar. Beloved by all commissioned men in the Corps, he'd found a pre-battle smoke sharpened his senses. He turned to one civilian man in a plain, navy-blue body suit, a researcher on Brute battle tactics and strategy. His name was Lawrence McKullen, and rumour had it that he'd personally interviewed the Master Chief, after being one of the first humans to do battle with the simian aliens. For somebody who'd spent a lot of time in the trenches, doing research first-hand, he had a nervous, jittery manner. "Well, Mr McKullen? What's your analysis?" Bergen couldn't help but sound slightly condescending. He didn't hold with trying to put war into a textbook-it came down to your own mind and guts.

The civilian perused the screens, showing the alien host rolling towards Futility Ridge. He nodded a few times. "It's almost a mixture of the twin doctrines, General. The main warrior caste have been given the superior position, weapons and armor. The vehicular soldiers take the lead, no doubt wishing to be first to the fight. However, this-"he pointed to the rear of the column-"is Brute thinking. The commander has put the trash at the back-the wounded, the stupid, and so on. He holds the other races in contempt. Probably intends to have them all die just to win. I'd say this is him trying to throw you off balance, sir."

Bergen sniffed derisively. "If that's what he calls off balance, then the bastard's a fool. What about those Wraiths? Not as many as I'd thought."

McKullen shook his head. "Irrelevant. He only needs to position them somewhere with good cover and range, and he can rain down fireballs on us until Judgement Day. Accordingly-"he tapped the screen, indicating the Banshee wings-"he will probably pull these back, and create a protective cordon. The Wraiths can win him the battle and he knows it."

The general nodded grudgingly, twirling his cigar idly. He'd not thought of it that way. Perhaps the civvy knew his trade after all. "Well, it's all I need to see. Continue your surveillance-I want an updates every ten minutes, sent to my pad." McKullen saluted, and watched the screens intently, making notes. Meanwhile, other men and women continued with their work, speaking in low, calm voices. Whether that composure would endure the Covenant assault remained to be seen.

Stepping outside, the sunlight hit his face. The sun, now going down, was tinted orange, turning the whole landscape into one uniform picture. The dust in the air was thick, and he coughed. Air processors only did so much. And with night oncoming, well…perhaps the punishing sun might be gone, but darkness would not be their friend. He hoped his men would keep the flares handy.

He decided it was time for a time-honored tradition-to go out amongst the men, and check up on morale. Not always the best idea-a combat zone was unsafe, and he was probably needed elsewhere, but Bergen didn't see why they should have to suffer low spirits in, what could be for some of these soldiers, their final hours. He remembered, when he had been a noncom, how the lack of regard from the brass had been a constant, depressing thorn in his side, on top of endless losses to the Covenant. He vowed to cleave by a simple motto: _the men first._

Pulling on a marine-issue flak jacket to hide his uniform, and pulling the cap from his head, he scratched his red-and grey shot hair, and took a walk.

_Delta Company, G-Platoon, Eighth Squad_

"I wouldn't feed this to a rat, "Private Orson Feldman said morosely, poking at the strips of pre-packaged meat and vegetables on his plastic plate. "Look, even the flies are avoiding it." The insects in question were purple and ate anything that moved, meaning the food in question was indeed crap.

A bark of laughter, and Staff Sergeant Dickinson tossed a pebble at his subordinate. "That's called self-respect, son. Them flies have got standards of hygiene, unlike some." The tone was tongue-in-cheek, but it still grated.

Feldman gave a long-suffering look at his sergeant. "You just love to yap it up, don't you sarge? I'll bet, even when we're neck-deep in shit and Covenant bodies, you'll still be bashing my haircut or something." He stabbed at his plate. "I'm not dirty, it's the goddamn grit. Killing my throat-"

A chorus of groans, and the rest of his squad threw up their hands. Dickinson grabbed Feldman by the shoulder and shoved him toward a nearby water trough. "Jeez, private, if your precious lily-white throat hurts so bad, then go gargle! I just hope you remember which end of the rifle is the dangerous one when the battle comes!" Laughs followed this.

Feldman stomped off in disgust, his cheeks turning bright red. Goddamn squad. He knew they were just messing around, but the jibes had been coming thick and fast these last couple of days, and it was pissing him off. He stopped at the trough, and pressed the button that would release the water.

Another man knelt down, and filled up his canteen. He was about sixty, and had thinning red hair. He spoke without looking up. "Problems, son?"

Feldman shrugged sullenly. "No…well, yeah, I guess. My squad won't stop picking on me. Getting real tired of it, you know?" He finished washing his plate and slopped some water on his hands.

The old man grinned. "Yeah, I know. Who's your sergeant?"

"Dickinson."

He chuckled. "Larry Dickinson, eh? Well, when you go back, tell him this…"

Feldman walked back to the squad's position, a barely-concealed grin on his face. Dickinson noticed immediately. "What's the joke, private? Find yourself a boyfriend down at the trough?"

With perfect articulation, Feldman replied, "I suppose you would know, sarge, seeing as you had that run in with that _very _nice man on Nirvana VI. Name of Matt-or was it Matilda?"

His squadmates howled with laughter-one look at Dickinson's face told them the story was true. The face in question was ruddy red, and was trembling with rage. After a moment the sergeant stood up and walked off. Feldman watched him go with a smile, and winked at the others. "Gone to find a nice guy."

_23__rd__ Drop Platoon, 105__th__ Orbital Drop Shock Troopers, "The Hellhounds"_

"Weapons check!" Gunnery Sergeant Tarkov barked in his thick Hungarian accent.

With a syncopated series of clicks and snaps, the six-man team of ODSTs swept their hands over their weapons, pulling back handles, twisting knobs, racking slides. Once they were done, the team dropped into crouches, weapons pointed outward. Holding that pose for five seconds, they moved together in a fast run, low to the ground. Covering each other, they moved towards a pile of rocks. Suddenly, the split up, moving through the rock pile. Shouts of "Clear!" were heard, and the team linked up, moving back to their previous position. Forming a skirmish line and cocking their weapons, one with a corporal's bars saluted smartly. "Present and correct, sir!"

Tarkov nodded tersely, his scarred face filled with approval. "Good. At ease, Hellhounds. Reginald, you're on watch. Shift every twenty minutes." Reginald nodded and headed for the perimeter. "The rest of you, check your equipment-and if it isn't perfect when I come back, you'll run to the other side of the valley and back again!" He stomped off towards the latrines.

The team, one of five others in the platoon, settled down around a glow-cube which acted as a modern-day campfire. Usually they'd have the real thing, but Tarkov believed the light would attract Covenant attention. The fact that other squads had started small fires for cooking and such didn't seem to matter. Then again, the sergeant had always been a little…tense. But nobody was going into look into that paranoid, glaring face and say: "No."

The corporal sat down on a rock and removed his helmet, revealing a thirty-something man with red hair. "Sarge seem a little on edge to you guys?"

One ODST with an M90 shotgun slung over his shoulder snorted. "Yeah, because he's totally been Mr. Laid-Back ever since we met him. The man's a justifiable schizophrenic, in all the worst ways."

"Oh, and what are the good ways of being a schizophrenic?" another chimed in.

The shotgun ODST ignored him. "The Covenant aren't even here, and he's worried about being spotted. Does that sound like a reasonable mind to you?"

"Enough!" the corporal barked. "I wanted sound opinions from you, not conjecture and innuendo. Tarkov might be full on, but he's lead us right so far, and he wouldn't let any of us down when the time comes. You all understand?"

The squad nodded in unison. The corporal gave them one last glare, then looked away, a flicker of unease crossing his features. "He's just nervous. We all are. But when those alien crapsacks arrive, we'll take it to them, like we always do. Nothing to worry about."

Bergen, listening behind the rock pile, frowned with worry. Hellhounds on edge. Not good.

_Sigma Company, B-Platoon, Third Squad_

The ruddy-faced Second Lieutenant glared at him and folded his arms stubbornly. "I've told you time and again. I can only authorise modification of M12's when I have a signed declaration from your company commander. Since you don't have it, I can't let you. Now go, I have work to do." He returned to his paperwork.

Private Mitchell Hannaford, a native of Australia and the friendliest guy in the army, restrained himself from bashing the idiot's head in. Scratching his sun-bleached hair, he tried again. "Come on, mate-"

"Mate! You mean sir, don't you?"

Mitch rolled his eyes. "Right, right, _sir. _Just think about it. There's a surplus of SPNKrs, right? So, handing out a few of the mounts wouldn't hurt, right? I mean, you might think a 'Hog's not a 'Hog without the gun, but crew it with a couple of true-blue marines and they can match it with the best of 'em!" He finishes this little speech with a dazzling grin of enthusiasm-his specialty.

The officer, judging by his sour frown, did not share Mitch's confidence in the troops. "No signature, no weapon. Now get out, before I slap you with a court martial!" The lieutenant gave him a final glare and went out the back of the small cubicle/tent that operated as a vehicle depot office. Out the back, of course, was where the various Warthogs (A, G and TT variants), Mongooses, and other military craft were located. Even an M312 HRV "Elephant" was there. In this case, going to waste.

Mitch sighed and swept out of the tent, muttering curses under his breath. The drongo had no clue. His squad was posted on a bluff surrounded by rocks, high above the plain and had an easy withdrawal back to where the rest of the company was dug in. Any heavy weapon used there would inflict tremendous damage. His squad wasn't heavily armed-moreover, they were best at functioning as a support unit. What could be a chance to tear up some Covenant would be lost thanks to that lieutenant. Maybe he would find a use for that mouldy fruitcake his mum had sent him…

Down the slope, he could see a man approaching, dressed in a beat-up khaki jacket. He was quite old, but stepped lively. He walked up to Mitch and asked without preamble, "You got a shot on you son?"

The marine quirked an eyebrow. "Pardon?" This guy looked kind of familiar…

The old man chuckled and shoved him slightly. "Come on, private. I'll be damned if there isn't a man in this army who isn't carrying a bit of the firewater on him." At seeing Mitch's bewildered expression, he asked gently, "Booze?"

Mitch laughed. "Nah, mate. I'm clean."

He shrugged. "Shame. Maybe there's some in there." He nodded at the tent. The Australian snorted. "I'd give up on that if I were you. The bastard in there's so tightfisted he wouldn't give a drink to his own mother." Briefly, he outlined his requisition problems, and his reasons behind it.

The guy seemed interested. "Really? Let me go have a talk with this lieutenant." He strode into the tent, pulling some sort of card from his pocket. Mitch watched with interest.

When he walked back out, he had a confident smile on his face. "You'll have that MG in no time at all, private. Now-"he checked his watch-"I believe there's time for a Scotch. See you around." He stuck his hands into his pockets and walked back down the slope.

Mitch watched him go, and when he finally realised who the strange old man had been, he stuffed his fist into his mouth. The squad was going to love this one.

General Bergen returned to the command post, his mind abuzz. A few more tours amongst the men had led him to the conclusion: they were nervous, but ready to fight. There would be no cowards or deserters in this fight, he could say. That was his worst nightmare, as opposed to plasma fire or ravaging alien maws. Odd, but he had to be himself.

"General!" A young man, a Warrant Officer, ran up to him. His face was red and sweating-he had obviously run up from the ridge slope. "Sir, radar's reading a large formation of aerial vehicles inbound. They check out as friendlies-but they haven't identified themselves. Should we send a recon to check it out?"

Bergen frowned in consternation. "Tag a beacon to one of the landing pads. We'll hold off on a check, but have the Ninth Reaction Force divert and watch our perimeter, and the Twenty-Eighth form up. I'm not taking chances." The man hurried off, barking orders into a radio. Various aircraft broke off from their units, and moved towards the airpads.

The general found a patrol Mongoose, and headed down towards the airpads, which were located behind the ridge near the field hospital. Most of their aircraft were in the skies, but a few remained on the flat dirt squares, having their engines, weapons or cockpits seen to. A few off-duty flyboys hung around their prized birds, trading off-colour jokes. They immediately shut up as Bergen trundled past them.

He came to the largest pad, F-6, and, dismounting from the 'Goose, headed over to a knot of Chief Warrant Officers, who were gathered around a series of screens set up under a canopy. All eyes were focused on a radar screen, the typical green concentric rings. A flashing arc turned in revolutions. To the east, there was a series of moving dots.

The group saluted, but Bergen got straight to the point. "How many are there?"

One of the CWO's consulted a personal pad. "Between twenty and thirty. Heavy-duty thermal signatures. Moving in loose formation-but now they're speeding up. I think they found our beacon, sir."

"So it would seem." He reached for the stub of his cigar in his breast pocket, then thought better of it. "Keep your eyes peeled, men. I don't want to drop the ball on this one." He strode out to the edge of the landing pad.

A heavy, dull thrumming entered the air, making his eardrums twinge with pain. His insides felt…fluid. He was familiar with this feeling. _Artificial gravity. Alien._

Dots appeared on the hazy horizon, and came to resemble Phantom dropships. They were not coloured purple-blue, which meant no Covenant. But neither were they the lime-green of Sangheili transports. They were a shimmering silver in hue, sparkling like diamonds in the fading light.

A voice crackled through their COM unit. "_Humans, this is Aero-Leader Krantu, requesting permission to make berth."_

One of the airmen spoke into the receiver. "Krantu, you are clear for landing. Come on down."

"_My thanks. Krantu out."_

A group of five circled the landing site, and began to power down their grav thrusters. Lights dimmed, and the ships came to rest on the large pad. Another group of five did the same, in the same precise manner. Bergen watched with interest-they were clearly professional. What kind of Elites were these? As one of the dropships came to rest near them, he noticed there was an emblem on the hull; a four-fingered hand wrapped in blazing fire. He'd never seen that sigil before.

As the ships deactivated the onboard engine, the troop bay flaps opened with a hiss. Stepping out from the interior of these ships were Elite warriors. But they were definitely not regulars.

They all had some variation of silver on their armor-lining, bands, geometric shapes. The shining hand emblem was similarly omnipresent. Their armor was different from group to group-some had the standard mandible-covering harness, but others had variations. Blade-like extensions jutted out from some helmets, others merely had a sinister black faceplate masking their features.

And the weapons they carried were worthy of mention. The odd plasma rifle and needler was present, but many sported long rifles filled with needles, blue shoulder-mounted cannons with a large scope on top, compact grenade launchers coloured a svelte brown. These, he well knew, were something special.

As soon as the Elites dismounted, they immediately formed ranks, as a scarlet-clad major inspected each team. Once inspected, they remained standing at attention, eyes forward and arms at their sides. Not a word was spoken. The majors formed their own line, and so made a guard of honour to the doors of one Phantom, which had a pair of golden crests adorning its flanks. They must have been worth millions of credits.

Two large, heavily-armed Elites stepped from the doors, holding glowing energy staves. Crossing them over the entrance, they bowed their heads as the leader stepped forward.

He was tall-even for an Elite. Standing at around three metres tall, he towered over the others. His armor, in contrast to the glowing silver around him, was matte-black. He had no extra attachments, upgrades or extensions. It was, quite simply, black.

That black formed a sheer contrast with his face, which bore no helmet. Most Sangheili had a rich brown colour for skin. The Elite commander was an albino. His skin looked like it had been borrowed from a cadaver. It certainly matched his gleaming red eyes, which were filled with a powerful-yet strangely _dead_-intelligence.

The Elite walked silently down the rows of alien warriors, heading straight for Bergen. The general tried not to quail as he felt that dead gaze upon him. _We're allies, _he reminded himself. _It's not this alien's fault he looks like a corpse._

Coming to a halt before him, the Sangheili inclined his head stiffly. "You are Major General Nicholas Bergen?" His voice sounded like broken glass in a bucket of ice. Sharp and cold.

Bergen was amazed the alien knew his rank, let alone his full name. "I am. And you would be the Elite Field Master?" Who else could this one be?

But the Elite shook his head. "No. I am Field Marshall Vaenos Ruin', leader of the Xonnel legions. They stand before you." He gestured behind him, at the numerous rows of Sangheili warriors.

So these were the Xonnel warriors. The Sangheili equivalent of Helljumpers-the best of the best. Bergen had been looking forward to seeing them in action. Trying to keep his voice level, he inquired calmly, "Where have you been, Field Marshall? We hit dirt hours ago. We were expecting you to be right behind us."

Ruin shrugged, unconcerned. "Secondary operations in the field required our expertise. The Jiralhanae proceed without haste, and so we took advantage of that." Thinking the matter closed, he pointed one slender, alabaster finger to one side of the ridge. "My warriors will bivouac up there. Ensure that space has been cleared, and reasonable amenities provided." Ruin turned and signalled to his majors.

Roaring out commands in their native tongue, the Xonnel warriors moved out, marching in formation. The look on their faces was uniform-singular, determined discipline. The few humans in the area watched with awe and more than a little fear.

Bergen quietly seethed. Though they were the same rank, Ruin was treating the situation as though he were the only authority. He seemed an experienced commander, but he couldn't help but think they would come to blows over tactical and strategic decisions. As long as Ruin's men didn't hinder his own, that would be fine.

He took another look at the small Elite army, around eight hundred strong. _Fat chance of that._

Dodging a passing Warthog, and threading his way between supply and ammunition crates, Terry found his way to where the rest of the squad were sitting, up against a pile of rocks on the outcrop they'd been assigned to. About four hundred marines had gathered here, although that would be increased as the battle began. A third of them were on patrol or sentry duty, but the rest were off-duty. That included their squad, November.

Len, Horatio, Dasa, Lazu and Gerun were still not present.

Sweating from the intense heat-even though the sun was going down it was still hot as hell-he found a small camp-chair and slumped down. His teammates barely noticed his presence, numbed by the temperature. Terry grabbed a canteen and chugged it, before saying, "They've arrived."

Kyle came out of his slump immediately. "The Covenant?" he demanded, hand going to his rifle. "On your feet-"

Terry snorted, and leaned back. "As if, sarge. If they were here, the general alarm would have sounded. Nah, the Elites just got here. Just under a thousand, I judged. Pretty badass, even for them. Those Xonnel dudes Rtas Vadum' talked about. Have you seen their leader?"

Ollie, who was fiddling with a radio, tossed a pebble at him. "How the hell would we know? It's too damned hot for any of that. Come on, Terry. What's your secret to moving around without broiling? You slip some ice-cubes down your pants or something? Got your own cryo-pod out back? Come on, you can tell me.." Ollie yelped as Terry hurled the water into his face, then actually sighed with relief. "Thanks man, that helps me out a lot. Don't suppose you could give me a back rub next?" This last sentence was done in a gay tone of voice, and he winked lasciviously.

Terry half-rose, bunching his fists. "If you start that crap again-"

Kyle pushed him back down. "Save it for the aliens, private. Ollie, if you're getting a craving for the warmth of your fellow man, then go find some twenty-stone guy with a foot fetish and be done with it." This managed to raise a few chuckles, and Ollie dropped back into the twilight of his lethargy. The radio slipped from his hands.

The sergeant refocused upon Terry. "The Elites are here, then? They made good on their word. What's with their leader?"

Terry shuddered, and shook his head. "Eight kinds of creepy, that's what. His skin is pure white, and his eyes are blood red. He looks like Dracula's stunt double with mandibles. Not to mention he's fucking huge. Not going near that guy, that's for sure. He'd probably eat me." At seeing Kyle's stunned expression, he asked, "Something the matter, sarge?"

Kyle said, in a low voice, "I know who he is."

They all turned to look at him. Even Ollie stirred, and watched blearily. "Howzat?" he mumbled.

Kyle sighed heavily, and twisted his hands. "I don't like talking about it…but I suppose if I can't tell it to you people, then there's nobody else. Listen up, then, I'm only saying this once.." Benson listened, rapt. He never thought the old man would open up like this. A real war story!

"About thirteen years ago-and this was before any of you-I was stationed on Kholo. One of the last remaining Outer Colonies. The Covies had mostly ignored it, but then they got ahold of one of our freighters, found the nav-data…and the rest is history.

"A scouting force was sent ahead, to check things out. Well, anyone could've told you, Kholo wasn't a hub of military strength. We had two defense frigates and a small corps of marines on the ground. That was it. When they first showed up, I gotta be honest…" Kyle shook his head. "Didn't expect to make it out of there."

"They muscled through our air defenses and landed in force at Dearmarsh, the biggest city on the planet. Testing our strength, I suppose. Well, there might have been only a shipload or so worth of them, but most of our regiments were being called in from the other side of the planet. Three companies to defend the city, until we got relief. Sierra, Bravo and Hotel. I had Bravo. Good bunch of men, seen their share of scraps. They knew how to fight, and fight smart. With them, I thought, we had a chance.

"While Hotel and Sierra worked on evacuating civilians and creating firebases, redoubts that we could use, I was ordered to strike into the heart of their occupation. Gather some intel, make some hit-and-run attacks, the works. Find out what they were planning to do next-after all, they hadn't done much since hitting groundside. Established a perimeter, controlled the skies. Apart from that, they'd just sat down on their asses. Made us all nervous.

"Dearmarsh was an island city, kind of like New Mombasa back on Earth. My company rallied outside the outbound bridge, headed on over. Minimal resistance the whole trip. Something definitely wasn't right. Of course, our resident scuttlebutt had some theories, but…" Kyle trailed off.

"The streets were empty of anything. There was debris, wreckage, a few checkpoints but no signs of life. It was a goddamn ghost town. When we got to Embley District at the centre of the city…we saw why."

Kyle's face looked like it was chiseled from stone. "The Covenant had captured every single civilian they could find-those they didn't kill-and corralled them into the district. We hadn't had extended contact with the enemy, but now he found out. They were Elites, all of them. They had a huge base set up. Sensors, turrets, armor, air support. At the centre of it all were the civvies. About two thousand of them. Men, women…children.

"They seemed to be waiting for something. I could have ordered an attack, but I decided to hold back. Wait for something to happen. Well, something did. A transport came down from their ships in orbit. And guess who was on it." He didn't elaborate, but he didn't have to-it was obvious.

"So, this leader of theirs-white as death-goes to inspect the captives. A few of my snipers got close enough to eavesdrop on him and his lieutenants. Sent it over the company COM. I can still remember every word:

"_Leader, we have swept the majority of the city. What you see here totals our search. Do you wish us to dispose of them?"_

"_No. They can still be useful to us. Lower the shields momentarily. I wish to question them."_

"He went into the enclosure, just himself. He ordered them all to line up, very quietly, very politely. One captive marine had himself a bit of a mouth. Told him to get screwed and didn't move. So the leader asks him again. The marine still refuses to move. So he lunged forward. And…and bit into his neck. Tore his throat out. He even swallowed the blood. By that point we were all raring to go-but the worst had just begun.

He asked each civilian the same question: "What do you know?" At first no-one could believe it. The question could have referred to anything. Knowledge of Kholo, of any Forerunner artifacts that might have been there, of military activity…anything. The first person he asked couldn't answer. She just stuttered. After a few seconds, the Elite pulled out a plasma rifle and shot her through the head. Without missing a beat, he moves onto the next one."

The sergeant stared at the ground, his voice emotionless. He could have been talking about the weather. "The same question. For each person. Over and over. Every time, a response he didn't like. The same result. After he ran out of charge, he started using his sword. And he liked to mix it up, that son of a bitch. Through the head, through the chest, across the throat…he was smiling the whole time. He thought it was great practice. Even as the poor bastards he killed begged for mercy. Tried to run. Protect their loved ones. Just stay alive."

The entire squad was silent. The ambient noise outside their little conclave seemed to have dulled. From far off, a lone desert wolf howled mournfully. Like a funeral bell for all those lost souls. Benson closed his mouth, which had been hanging open.

"After about an hour, it was pretty clear that he was getting nowhere. By now, everyone was too damn frightened to say anything. His subordinates convinced him to stop. Even they looked sick of it. So he took the survivors out of the base…and put them to work. Setting explosives. Big ones.

"As if what he'd done wasn't enough, he made them rig nearby buildings. Mostly militia strongholds, or ones with good vantage points. Hell, he even made them set up traps along the approaches to the district. Ones that would kill any marines coming forward. They wept, even as they did it. They had no other choice. But he had one, last act to commit. He gathered them all back in the enclosure. And put a bomb inside it. Locked down the shields."

Xavier gasped quietly. "He didn't-"

"Don't interrupt, marine." His voice sounded like a whip crack. "For the next ten minutes, those civilians could do nothing except watch their doom come a little closer with each fucking second. They went mad-angry, screaming. Tried to get out. Tried to beg the guards. Nothing worked. After ten minutes…the bomb blew. When the smoke cleared, there was nothing left. Just ashes. The shields held. I remember that. They must have been good manufacture." He ducked his head, and uttered what might have been a sob. It was too terrible to believe.

"So here we were, watching this all happen. I radioed back to Hotel and Sierra, told them we were going in. No response. I sent a squad back to check on them." He was silent for a few moments. "They were all dead. Butchered to a man. And Covenant occupying their positions. We couldn't believe it. The leader had known we'd attempt to establish a position first, rather than go in all guns blazing. He _knew _how we'd think. Before we marched in, he sent strike teams to lie in wait. That way, he got the majority of us. It was only a matter of time before they found us and did the same. And no-one would be left to contest the city. Tell other people what…what happened."

"I ordered us to fall back across the bridge, and wait for reinforcements. Some of the men didn't like that. They wanted to fight, and die fighting. I wasn't about to stop them. I let those that wanted to fight, fight. I took everyone else out of the city. I only heard the first shots. After that…nothing."

Suddenly he stood up, and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. He lit it with hands that were rock-solid. There was no weakness in his voice. "A few days later, we rolled in with the rest of the corps. Fought them long and hard. But it wasn't long after that a Covie fleet arrived in-system. There was nothing for it. We supervised evacuations across the planet, and bailed. There was nothing more we could do. I never did see that Elite again." He took a drag, and then his face soured. "Now he's back, you say?"

Terry nodded. "With a whole army behind him. The Xonnel warriors." He was still thinking about that story. _Man, if Horatio was here…_

Kyle sniffed. "Well, if things haven't changed, those Brutes are in for one hell of a fight."

Benson had to ask. "How come? I know they're Elites, but…" He trailed off, as the sergeant stared him down. Then he said:

"The Xonnel were the ones on Kholo."

A bell rang, off in the background. Kyle smoothed down his fatigues. "Chow time, ladies. Move your asses, or you'll go hungry. Leave a note for the others-in case they show up." He strode away, still puffing his cigar. The squad slowly got up, grabbed their sidearms. This was still a war zone, after all.

Terry caught up to Kyle. "Sorry about stirring up old memories, sarge. I didn't mean-"

"Mm."

Terry nodded, mostly to himself. Then, on a whim, asked, "Would you do that with us? Send us to our deaths, I mean?"

Kyle looked at him sideways, and then away. "Depends on what we're fighting for."

The Pelican dropship juddered as it hit an air pocket, but steadied. The loud, grating drone of the jets failed to wane, however. Sitting in the cramped troop hold, the dim red light illuminating the pale faces of the marines being thrust back into their seats. A dried puddle of vomit decorated one wall. It looked as thought it would soon be joined by a few others. The ride had not been enjoyable.

The charring noise drumming a tattoo on his brain, Corporal Len Fletcher, member of the prototype squad and Lady Luck's new whipping boy, pressed a frozen hand to his forehead. In addition to the pounding headache, he was seated near the ramp. A bolt of plasma from an AA gun had fried the hydraulics, and a freezing gale was blowing straight into their faces. The sun was heading down.

An extra-loud crackle caused his temper to snap, and he got up, ignoring the huge drop just to his right. Making his way to the cockpit, he bellowed above the wind, "What the bloody hell is causing that noise?"

The warrant officer grimaced beneath his helmet's faceplate, and scratched his arm in a nervous gesture. "Plasma residue mixed with the dust, clogged the intakes. I'll have to get them cleaned out when we-"

A blinding flash behind them, and a blue bolt of plasma hit their right engine. A small explosion rocked the troop hold, and noxious smoke filled the air. Len, after shaking his head to clear it, turned to see a Banshee in hot pursuit, guns charging. Another plasma shot hit their left wing, and the Pelican's altitude dropped precariously. The marines cried out in fear or shock. "Christ!" Len turned back to the pilot. "Can you-"

The man slumped forward, dead. Knocked forward by the blast, he had hit his head on the glass and broken his neck. Swearing once again, the marine hauled him out of the seat and grabbed the controls. He'd never been formally trained, but necessity had demanded he take the wheel a few times in the past. "Lazu! Get up here!" he yelled over his shoulder.

The black-armored Elite forced his way into the cockpit, ducking his head. He had been sitting near the door, in the shadows. "We have Banshees on our tail!" he said curtly.

"No shit." Another blast rocked them. "Get those marines away from the ramp and tell them to hold onto something! This is going to get hairy." He dipped the thrusters, and took them over a low ridge. Once he was sure they were clear of any obstacles, he flicked on the radio. "_Mayday, mayday. UNSC Pelican serial Delta-Bravo Three-Niner under fire, I repeat, under fire. Any UNSC or Sangheili forces, respond. We could use some help!"_

The radio fizzled and bleeped. No help was forthcoming. Lazu came back through the door, his harness scorched and blackened. The Elite grimaced. "The cursed Brutes will not stop until we lie in burning ruin. We have to disembark."

"Impossible, "Len snapped. "We've got no parachutes, nothing. If we jump, we're all flapjacks. Flat, "he added, seeing Lazu's bemused expression. "But this bird's had it. We need to get those bogies off our asses, then I'll try and land. Not until then!" He angled the craft into a steep dive, and entered a series of wending canyons. The hostile aircraft followed, grav-pods flaring blue.

Lazu returned to the troop hold. He needed a way to destroy the Banshees, but there wasn't a single missile launcher or other heavy weapon to be found. The human turret gun had snapped off after their feint with the AA gun, so that was out. His own weapons-carbine, sword and plasma pistol-wouldn't be enough. The latter had an overcharge function, but at these speeds it would be useless. EMP. That was the answer. Somehow.

He moved to the press of marines, who had abandoned their seats. "Have any of you a weapon that carries a disabling pulse?" he demanded. "Speak now!"

One marine held up a two-handed grenade launcher with a long barrel and a breach-action loader. "Em-three nineteen. Sure, it's not that powerful, but…"

"That will do." Lazu grabbed it, turned it over in his hands. The device seemed familiar. Scratched along the handle were the words _Mister Blasty._

Moving to the ramp, the Elite planted one foot down to steady himself, and aimed the weapon out. The Banshee, upon seeing him, fired its cannons, and a burst caught him on the shoulder. Lazu winced, but aimed and fired.

A compact, conical grenade burst out of the barrel and fell in an arc, detonating in a scatter of shrapnel and fire, missing the Banshee. The noise clicked into his head. He remembered where he'd seen this firearm before. On Reach. He turned around. "Reload!"

Someone passed him a grenade, and, breaking the weapon in half, slotted it in. "_Len, increase our altitude, "_he spoke into his radio. The Pelican's jets fired and the ground dropped away from them. The Banshee boosted after them, still firing. Alarm klaxons were ringing now. He had to make this shot, or they were doomed.

He pulled the trigger once more, but kept it depressed. The grenade dropped away, a small black object. When it came level with the enemy flier, he let go. The grenade exploded, not only shearing away the driver canopy, but sent a racing blue current over the entire vehicle. Disabled by the EMP, it careered sideways into a cliff and exploded.

The marines who were watching cheered at the top of their lungs, clapped and whistled. "Holy shit, that was amazing!" one exclaimed. "I totally want to do that next time!"

Lazu handed back the grenade launcher, nodding his thanks. "A fine weapon. Take good care of it." He returned to the cockpit, where Len still wrestled with the thrusters, his forehead puckered in a frown. "The Banshee has been dispatched, Len."

The corporal pushed some more buttons, and yanked a lever. The growl of the engines dulled away, and Len breathed a sigh of relief. "Got her stabilised for now. We might have to ground her somewhere, but I think we might be OK." He was quiet for a moment. "That was some idea, frying the Banshee. I didn't even know you knew how to use that weapon."

Lazu smiled. "I did not. I had seen something similar to it, back during the Battle of Reach."

"Oh really? Tell me more."

The Elite thought back. "It was near the end of the battle. We had landed our forces on the planet en masse, and attacked the orbital gun generators. Resistance was collapsing. My unit was assigned to capture ship-breaking yards in a place called Aszod. Do you know that name?"

Len frowned. "I think so. On the continent of Eposz, if I recall rightly. My squad wasn't there, though. We got sent to Quezon, to help with the evacuations. Barely made it out of there. I could tell you a few stories about that, believe me. The plasma was raining down, day after day. A group of carriers was in low orbit right above us. Covies had complete control over the skies."

Lazu nodded. "As you say. My cousin, a pilot, had been patrolling with his lance when a human transport cut through their quadrant. They immediately gave chase, along with a Phantom. The humans were unable to fire back. My cousin became careless, and raced ahead. He thought to inflict a great kill, that would bring him glory. He was wrong.

"One of the humans fired a grenade, which he was able to dodge. But the grenade carried an EMP burst, which neutralised his engine. His Banshee lost power, and collided with another. They both died." Lazu's voice had been steady and even. "The Phantom had been witness to this. The pilot, once returned to our base, told us of the attack. He said that the human had been a demon-clad in special armor, and bearing a monstrous, skull-like visage." He was silent. "We had never before encountered such a being. Even our strongest were unnerved. I wonder what became of that demon."

Len had been impressed by the story. "So do I. Maybe he survived Reach, who knows?"

The Elite warrior shook his head doubtfully. "I do not think so. Someone of that…notoriety…would surely be remembered, somewhere. I have heard nothing of it anywhere. The demon must have died."

The marine snickered. "_Spartans never die, "_he recited wryly, _"they're just missing in action."_

Lazu was confused. "I do not understand. What does this mean?"

Len was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, "One time, back in the fighting in Voi, I was with the Master Chief. The last Spartan-II. The others had all died on Reach-you know the story. After we'd cleared the Tsavo Highway, we pushed on towards the Traxus facility where the AA guns were set up. I was driving in the Chief's 'Hog. We got to talking after a while. Nothing else to do, except run down the occasional Grunt." The Elite chuckled.

"Eventually, I asked him what it was like. To have lost everyone you ever cared about. I mean, sure, I'd lost most of my family when they glassed Green Hills, not long after Harvest. Parents and brothers." He blinked away the sudden moisture blurring his vision, and cleared his throat. "But the squad…well, they became family. And they still are. I'd lay my life down for every single one.

"So I said: _Will you be able to go on? When this war's over, I mean. All of your men died._

"I half-expected him to take a swing at me. But instead, he just said, quietly: _Spartans never die. They're just missing in action._

Lazu nodded slowly. "I understand this. The memory of legends never fades, even when their bones turn to dust. To continue fighting, warriors need motivation. Something to rally behind."

Len nodded. "Got that right." He smiled suddenly. "I guess we just swapped stories. Funny-"

The Pelican, which had been traveling relatively smoothly, began juddering and shaking like a door in a hurricane. They began to drop-noticeably. "Fuck!" Len stormed, and pulled at the thruster controls. "Get the marines ready, Lazu."

"For what?"

"Anything!" Through the windshield, he saw a break in the jumble of outcrops and hills. A strip of flat ground, that might have once been a riverbed, stood out in the fading light like a sore thumb. It would have to do. This bird wasn't going anywhere else. Except down.

The entire dashboard was lit up with beeping, flashing warning signs. Dials clicked worriedly. The dropship was on the verge of falling apart. _Good job we're about to crash the damn thing. _

Locking the steering controls into a forward position, and setting engine burn to minimal, he abandoned the cockpit and rejoined the others. A circle of white faces turned to face him. "Alright, listen up!" he roared above the gale. "It seems our ride is about to cash in its warranty, so we're going to have to strap in. Nothing else we can do about it, boys. I'll direct us onto an LZ-or what passes for one. Get to it, because we don't have long." A terrible screeching followed his words. The rear wing had snapped off. Hurriedly, the men began to sit back in their seats, pulling the crash-safety harnesses and belts around their bodies. Helmets were donned. Lazu, meanwhile, tossed crates of inventory out the rear opening, to lessen the chances of dangerous ricochets.

The ground was approaching them with appalling speed. The engines, now just blaring capsules of raw energy and thrust, were sounding like a devil's howl. Lazu nestled into the last seat, and braced a hand against the wall. One young private watched him with wide eyes. "Aren't you gonna strap in?"

"I'll be fine." His tone forbade further argument.

Len had finished preparing the transport for landing. He staggered back into the hold, and Lazu saw blood shining on his forehead, an ugly stain. "Are you alright?"

The corporal waved a hand dismissively. "Just a bruise. Everyone ready?" he shouted.

A burly sergeant made a noise that was half-laughter and half-choke. "If we ain't, son, then I better make my final peace with the man upstairs, eh?"

"Might be a good idea, "Len said, and put himself into the last seat. He grabbed his helmet, and stuffed it with fabric taken from his shirt. It might save his ever-so-precious head. Not sure about the rest of him, though.

Two hundred feet now. One hundred. Fifty-

The Pelican smashed into the turf, driving a deep hole into the ground. Pieces of burning shrapnel flew through the air, becoming deadly missiles. An unfortunate droau tree was blown into splinters as the left engine baffle crashed into it. A pair of smoking black lines followed the ship's mad crash.

Inside, the troop hold was a scene of chaos. Metal braces snapped and flew around, smashing into walls and unfortunate marines. One cried out from a broken wrist. The windshield had shattered, and twists and curls of broken glass swirled like leaves. The terrible shaking was lancing into their skulls. Len had his eyes squeezed shut, willing the entire ordeal to end.

After what seemed like an eternity of crashing, the Pelican ceased moving, coming to a groaning stop. Nobody moved, certain that the ship was still moving and they were imagining it. But eventually, they began to move, slowly, jerkily.

Len pulled off his helmet, and tossed it to the floor. A piece of bloodstained gauze was stuck to his head, and he removed that as well. He tried clearing his throat, and it felt like he was rubbing it with sandpaper. Gagging, he managed to croak, "Everybody OK?"

A chorus of groans and grunts filled the troop hold, and the marines pulled themselves from their seats, stripping away the protective harnesses. All of them had bruises and contusions from the impact, and a few had broken limbs. Lazu, who had barely moved from his spot during the crash, got up and moved to where a pair of marines slumped. After feeling their necks, he shook his head sadly. "Broken necks. There is nothing we can do."

Len sighed heavily, and moved gingerly to the exit, where the cool night air gently blew in. "Get their tags. We'll need to notify Command. Everyone, move outside. Get your bearings. Don't move too quick." He walked along the remains of the ramp, wincing with every step. The whiplash was already setting in.

Overall, things weren't too bad. Everybody else had made it, with relatively minor injuries. Their weapons and equipment were intact, including radios. And best of all, the main encampment wasn't too far away. Patrols had been informed.

As Len sat on a rock, massaging his jaw, a marine came up to him, rifle over shoulder. "Hey corporal, there're rescue ships inbound. They want to know if we need a lift."

Len stared at him, then at the mangled Pelican wreck. Then back.

Getting up, and tapping Lazu on the shoulder, he grabbed his pack. "Thanks, "he said over his shoulder. "But I think I'll walk." The Elite grunted his assent.

The pair walked towards the ridge, atop which lights glinted and figures moved. Already, Warthogs were on their way down to provide escorts. The sun had gone down, and evening had commenced. The heat was quickly dissipating, and a cool breeze prevailed. The air was filled with the contrasting scents of desert flowers and sulphur. Through the clouds above, stars glinted down.

It was a good night for a walk.


	19. Chapter 17

EARTH TIME: 19th of October, 2553

Futility Ridge

Point Defense Outpost V-19

Gethrii

Mission Clock: 2136

Amidst the wealth of activity taking place at Point Defense Outpost V-19, one of many such outposts set along the ridgeline in order to provide observational locations and-if it came down to it, rally points for a retreat-one man sat stock still. Seated at a fold up desk, with various data tablets in front of him, while outside the small cubicle positioned at the very rear of the redoubt marines and other personnel went back and forth among their duties.

The man gazed at the tablets, the information in front of him. It scrolled across the holographic screen. If one looked hard enough, you could see the lines of coding that formed the words. But the man was unconcerned with such technical nuances. All that mattered to him and his mission was that which was written.

No emotion crossed his face. Already a remarkably unremarkable man, clean-shaven and without distinguishing marks, his face looked nothing less than a block of stone. It was part of his profession-you did not get to where he was by showing emotion at critical points. The general would have his eyes out, particularly on him.

Brushing a slender finger against the screen, the man's eyebrows quirked slightly as receptors in his eyes sparked connections to his brain and began analysing the new text.

It read:

_/FILE ACCESS GRANTED/ WORM-PROTOCOL FIREWALL ACTIVE/ AUTOMATIC DELETION SEQUENCE: ACTIVE_

_PLNB TRANSMISSION: DGS284-NB_

_ENCRYPTION SCHEME: FOXTROT_

_PUBLIC KEY: N/A_

_FROM: CODE NAME SURGEON_

_TO: CODE NAME FALCONER_

_SUBJECT: NEW MISSION DETAIL_

_CLASSIFICATION: EYES ONLY, CODE-WORD –CLASSIFIED-, TOP SECRET (SECTION THREE ZULU DIRECTIVE)_

_/FILE-EXTRACTION COMPLETE/_

_/STARTING FILE 1 OF 1_

_New prototype squad went active as of five days ago. Some training exercise back on Earth-didn't go well, from all accounts. Didn't stop Hood from giving the green light. Deployment orders and paperwork's been processed. They are now officially the property of the corps, even the Elite commandoes. Suspect most of the brass weren't quick to notice that little addendum. But that's not the interesting part._

_Shipped to Gethrii under the auspices of Captain Hodgkins, UNSC _Silver Lining _(see profile attached). Now, this is where it gets interesting. They were dropped via SOEIV down onto that hellhole's surface, amongst some of the greenest regulars I've ever laid eyes on. Figure of speech. Now, either command is becoming steadily more stupid with time-which isn't so ridiculous when you think about it-or someone's turning some wheels behind the scenes. And that, as I hardly need to tell you, won't wash._

_Orders have just been forwarded from Section Three, LC Wertman's old desk job. Hood had him personally crucified in front of the top brass-a lesson to all of us, I think. His replacement is far more discreet. No going through the official channels, no committees. Just a simple, straightforward mission. That's all those grunts have to know._

_As I understand it, there's a sizeable occupying Brute force planetside. Do yourself-and me-a favour and not get killed. Good operatives are hard to find these days and I'd rather not have to sift through all the paperwork if you were to take a plasma round to the face. You understand._

_Co-ordinates for their tracker implants and PERSCOM files (along with CSVs) have been attached. Use them well-I had to pull some significant strings to get ahold of them. Bottom line: find them and brief them. All other concerns are secondary._

_/MESSAGE ENDS/_

_/FILE CLOSED/_

The man, his name clandestine and known to his superiors, inferiors, equals and general colleagues as "Falconer" sat back after reading the message from the infamous "Surgeon" and rubbed his eyes for exactly three seconds. After this, he laced his fingers together and cupped them under his chin, thinking.

Truth be told, this was not his kind of mission. By all means, yes, he was a specialist in this field. Retrieval and reconnaissance. As simple a role as the trackers in armies from centuries past. Find whatever he was ordered, and-depending on its nature-bring it back, take a sample, gather intel or report on its status. Simple.

But rarely had his targets been flesh and blood humans that _weren't _on the opposing side. The Insurrection had been easy-a certain mentality was all that was required. Now he was supposed to deploy his considerable talent in the hopes of locating a prototype squad of unruly marines and their Sangheili counterparts? Even if they were already all in the army and accounted for, there were bound to be ramifications, no matter what kind of clearance he was waving. Bergen was no fool. Pulling boots off the line was not something that most battlefield commanders appreciated-and even less from ONI spooks.

Letting the barest trace of a sigh escape his lips, he ran one finger over the data tablet again and the screen fluxed, warped and coalesced into a new set of figures. The personnel records that his colleague had sent. These would be his only source of aid in locating the squad. He had better make the best of them.

Leaning closer, the ONI operative gazed at the myriad faces and began to read.

PERSCOM DATABASE: UNSC MARINE CORPS

NAVAL DESIGNATION: (PREVIOUS LIST ATTACHED)

BATTLE GROUP: Rampant

CURRENT: UNSC _Silver Lining_

COMMAND LISTING: 12th M-EDF/121st REGIMENT/508th BATTALION/ZULU COMPANY/B-PLATOON/NOVEMBER SQUAD (TEMPORARY DESIGNATION PURSUANT TO OPERATION: UNSEEN HAND/GETHRII THEATER)

CAPACITY: TEN

(FILE 1/10)

_Name: Ashcroft, Kyle F._

_Rank: Sergeant (previously Colonel, Gunnery Sergeant, numerous other ranks)_

_Serial number: 94522-23385-KA_

_Date of birth: 1/7/2508_

_Birthplace: Persephone, Eridanus II_

_Date of enlistment: 21/5/2528_

_Campaign listing ( NOTABLES): Battle of Harvest, Battle of Jericho VII, Siege of Paris IV, Battle of Kholo, Battle of Sigma Octanus IV, Battle of Reach, Battle of Earth (incl. Old/New Mombasa, Kenya, Voi, Sicily, Denmark)._

_Unit assignments: Participation in OPERATIONS: WILDFIRE, BEACHHEAD, GREATER GOOD, ATROPOS, TIP OF THE SPEAR, QUEZON, ONE FINAL EFFORT. Served on vessels across the Harvest, Epsilon Eridani 17__th__, 2__nd__, 7__th__ and Earth Home Fleets._

_Promotions/Transfers: Enlisted at the rank of Private, received several promotions and rose to Gunnery Sergeant. In 2534 went to Reach OCS, gained rank of Lieutenant and after several campaigns rose to Colonel. However, insubordination in the Battle of Casimir (incident report attached) lead to his demotion and subsequent resignation from his commission. Testimony from several witnesses (including the CO) proved ineffective. He has refused several promotions in recent years and prefers to remain with his current squad._

_Decorations: To date, has received every decoration save the Colonial Cross and the P.O.W. Medallion._

_Comments: Kyle has remained the consummate soldier throughout all his years in the Corps: detail oriented, tough as nails and willing to sacrifice anything for the good of the mission. His ever-changing ranks and positions of authority have not beaten that out of him-however, I believe that it is time to give the devil his due. This is the sort of man we can't afford to have commanding one measly squad; an entire company or even a battalion of marines would more seem to suit his talents. That being said, don't push him. He's stood toe-to-toe with the worst the galaxy has to throw at anyone and come out intact. Will get the job done. However, his age is catching up with him-cryo only does so much. Recommend regular medical assessments._

_STATUS: In active service._

The profile picture at the bottom of the CSV showed a weathered, unsmiling face, with sunken eyes and a buzzcut of grey with faded streaks of chestnut atop his head. A nasty, jagged scar from a Covenant energy sword almost made him wince. The man had almost as many signs of battle on him as a tank, and he looked just as handsome.

(FILE 2/10)

_Name: Fletcher, Leonard B._

_Rank: Corporal (formerly Staff Sergeant)_

_Serial number: 12956-07759-LF_

_Date of birth: 3/10/2509_

_Birthplace: New Aberdeen, Green Hills_

_Date of enlistment: 10/14/2529_

_Campaign listing ( NOTABLES): Battle of Madrigal, Battle of Jericho VII, Siege of Paris IV, Battle of Vindiche IV, Theftian Campaigns, Battle of Sigma Octanus IV, Battle of Reach, Battle of Ballast, Battle of Earth (incl. Old/New Mombasa, Kenya, Voi, Sicily, Denmark)._

_Unit assignments: Participations in OPERATIONS: WILDFIRE, SIMON SAYS, CONCRETE JUNGLE, AUTOMATON, ATROPOS, TIP OF THE SPEAR, QUEZON, ONE FINAL EFFORT. Served on vessels across the Epsilon Eridani 17__th__, 8__th__, 28__th__ and Earth Home Fleets._

_Promotions/Transfers: Enlisted at the rank of Private First Class, conspicuous merit upon the battlefield and two Purple Hearts earned him rank of Lance Corporal, followed by Staff Sergeant. However, was demoted for cowardice/refusal to fight in the Theftian Campaigns (incident report attached). Has remained at the rank of Corporal for the last decade and beyond. _

_Decorations: Has earned the Purple Heart seven times and the Human-Covenant War Medallion.. Several citations from officers and his own NCO are also prominent._

_Comments: Some might say that Corporal Fletcher embodies the worst characteristics of a soldier during wartime-sarcasm, flippancy and an inability to maintain seriousness and decorum in combat zones. Various reports would seem to confirm that he knows when to-borrowing a term from the Helljumpers-"pull his shit together and drop."A natural leader in his own right-in three separate campaigns he rallied members of broken platoons and companies and marshaled them into a fighting force, saving more than I would have thought possible. The incident on Theft was a mishap, I'm sure-he doesn't seem the type to turn tail and run like he did. Redemption is a powerful force, and he has done more than his share to achieve it. Leave him alone to do his job._

_STATUS: In active service._

A smirking, sly-looking visage with patches of russet-coloured fuzz on his cheeks (in direct violation of grooming protocols) and a mouthful of white teeth. His hair was a rusty-red; this was unsurprising, considering that the original colonists of Green Hills had been of Scottish and Irish descent. Even from this picture, Falconer didn't trust him an inch.

(FILE 3/10)

_Name: Zerba, Horatio U._

_Rank: Private (formerly Lance Corporal)_

_Serial number: 28795-11709-HZ_

_Date of birth: 29/6/2513_

_Birthplace: Nueva Lima, Madrigal_

_Date of enlistment: 12/3/2531_

_Campaign listing ( NOTABLES): Battle of Harvest (III), Battle of Jericho VII, Siege of Paris IV, Battle of Leonis Minoris, Port Auburn Massacre, Siege of Torellian II, Battle of Sigma Octanus IV, Battle of Reach, Battle of Earth (incl. Old/New Mombasa, Kenya, Voi, Sicily, Denmark)._

_Unit assignments: Participation in OPERATIONS: WILDFIRE, DIVINE LANCE, ATROPOS, SAMHAIN, BLACK SPOT ATROPOS, TIP OF THE SPEAR QUEZON, ONE FINAL EFFORT. Served on vessels across the Epsilon Eridani 17__th__, 34__th__, 201__st__ and Earth Home Fleets._

_Promotions/Transfers: Enlisted at the rank of Private First Class following the fall of Madrigal; conspicuous merit upon the battlefield earned him a Purple Heart and a promotion to Lance Corporal. An incident involving insubordination in order to save the lives of civilians on Jericho VII (incident report attached) led to his demotion. Was transferred to Sergeant Ashcroft's squad in 2535 and has remained there ever since. Several applications to join sniping units have been denied. However, he now fills this role within his own squad and requests have ceased._

_Decorations: Has earned three Purple Hearts and the Human-Covenant War Medallion. His NCO has recommended him for promotion several times without success._

_Comments: Zerba was one of the "lost generation"-men that lost their homeworlds to glassing when they were barely adults and signed up out of vengeance. Any casual observer would think he would burn himself out in due course-he has been psychoanalysed for PTSD and obsession with revenge, though he was never removed from service. He has stayed rock-solid through the worst years of the war and still looks stable enough. Two things are worth noting: his occasional-yet noteworthy-pre-occupation with preserving the lives of non-combatants in combat situations, and his extreme hatred for Elites, which is still strong for a garden-variety marine. May require a transfer if he cannot put a latch on his grudge._

_STATUS: In active service._

A man with dark brown skin, not quite black but dark enough to merit a second look. That was interesting, considering Madrigal had consisted of mostly Latino and Hispanic populations. His jet black hair was cut to the quick and he possessed a pair of penetrating green eyes. A grim slash was his mouth, and lines of stress framed his face. This was a man who had given it everything he had. Maybe he didn't have a lot left.

(FILE 4/10)

_Name: Abernathy, Oliver I._

_Rank: Private First Class (NOTE: Was former civilian consultant/cryptanalyst. Relevant profile attached)_

_Serial number: 85663-02492-OA_

_Date of birth: 87/4/2516_

_Birthplace: Dante, Chi Ceti_

_Date of enlistment: 11/9/2540_

_Campaign listing: (NOTABLES): Restivus Conflict, Battle of Kuldan VI, Battle of Miridem, Battle of Galatus, Siege of Paris IV, Battle of Sigma Octanus IV, Battle of Reach, Battle of Earth (incl. Old/New Mombasa, Kenya, Voi, Sicily, Denmark). _

_Unit assignments: Participated in OPERATIONS: RETURN TO SENDER, CROATOAN, ATROPOS, INFERNO, TIP OF THE SPEAR, QUEZON, ONE FINAL EFFORT. Served in ships across the Epsilon Eridani, 17__th__, 41__st__ and Earth Home Fleets._

_Promotions/Transfers: Enlisted at the rank of Private and has remained there ever since. An offer of promotion to Corporal was turned down on the grounds that "idiots make good corporals. And I'm not an idiot."_

_Decorations: Has earned two Purple Hearts and the Cryptanalysis Commendation Star._

_Comments: Before enlisting into the Corps, Abernathy was a bona fide genius-earned two doctorates in military cryptanalysis and Slipspace communications, and was snapped up as a consultant. However, it seems that patriotism-or self-preservation-got the better of him and he signed up to be a ground-pounder. It hasn't dampened his skills-he can hack any Covenant tech, and he's the next best thing to an AI. Hell, a few times he was pulled off the lines to make technical decisions that saved countless lives, on the ground and in space. Doesn't seem to like the limelight though. Suggest that we don't transfer him-but perhaps a few military lectures in future would not go astray._

_STATUS: In active service._

A ruddy-red face with crew cut blonde hair, the supposed technical genius flashed a gap-toothed grin at Falconer. His blue eyes, however, contained something that the ONI operative was familiar with-raw intellect and brilliance. He would very much like to meet this one; he seemed a cut above the rest.

(FILE 5/10)

_Name: Hazumaru, Xavier R._

_Rank: Private (formerly Army Specialist in a demolition unit-relevant profile attached)._

_Serial number: 82640-00712-XH_

_Date of birth: 3/3/2515_

_Birthplace: Tyumen, New Harmony_

_Date of enlistment: 42/2/2537 for Army, 15/6/2541 for Marine Corps._

_Campaign listing: (NOTABLES): Battle of New Constantinople, Sesaria Conflict, Siege of the Atlas Moons, Battle of Skopje, Siege of Paris IV, Battle of Sigma Octanus IV, Battle of Reach, Battle of Earth (incl. Old/New Mombasa, Kenya, Voi, Sicily, Denmark). _

_Unit assignments: Participation in OPERATIONS: CORPUS, SMITHEREENS, SUPERNOVA, ATROPOS, TIP OF THE SPEAR, QUEZON, ONE FINAL EFFORT. Has served on ships across the 17__th__, 79__th__, 28__th__ and Earth Home fleets._

_Promotions/Transfers: Enlisted as a demolitions expert after extensive training at the corresponding facility on Mars' Misrah Complex, and performed commendably-however, the destruction of his entire unit in the Battle of Fespurn (incident report attached) led to his transfer to the Marine Corps ranks as Private. Applications to rejoin a demolitions unit were turned down but ceased altogether after the Battle of Ballast._

_Decorations: Has earned one Purple Heart and several citations for bravery under fire. Said citations were all received while at rank of Specialist._

_Comments: Much in the same way that Abernathy excels in the areas of the mind, Private Hazumaru specializes in the field of destruction. Although his IQ tests were less-than-impressive (scoring a modest 114), when it comes to things that go boom he has a natural flair. Two examples of fellow troopers laying accusations of carelessness concerning thermite explosives in '39 were unfounded, although he sometimes delights in total anarchy-which has led to more than a few psych exams. Despite this, many agree that no case of instability exists and that he is a valuable asset. NOTE: Was a childhood friend of Private Iorio. May affect his judgement in some areas (i.e. wounded squadmate)._

_STATUS: In active service._

True to his name, Xavier was Japanese, and possessed their natural fine-boned looks, epicanthic eyes and pale skin. A manic twitch at the corner of his mouth told Falconer (a man who was superb at reading people) that for this man, the art of war could be, at times, nothing more than a game of fireworks. He wondered how safe his comrades felt next to him.

(FILE 6/10)

_Name: Iorio, Terrence C._

_Rank: Private First Class (Has had previous experience with ONI Black Ops-CLASSIFIED MATERIAL, EYES ONLY)_

_Serial number: 66546-03361-TI_

_Date of birth: 1/5/2511 _

_Birthplace: New Barbados, Emerald Cove_

_Date of enlistment: 30/8/2534_

_Campaign listing: Battle of Olundis IX, Battle of Jericho VII, Battle of Si-Grulkis, Battle of Leonis Minoris, Battle of Skopje, Siege of Paris IV, Battle of Sigma Octanus IV, Battle of Reach, Battle of Earth (incl. Old/New Mombasa, Kenya, Voi, Sicily, Denmark). _

_Unit assignments: CLASSIFIED. However, he has participated in well-known ops such as TIP OF THE SPEAR, QUEZON and ONE FINAL EFFORT._

_Promotions/Transfers: Enlisted at the rank of Private First Class, and after several missions involving stealth tactics with outstanding results, was recruited for ONI Black Ops, Lone Wolf Division Section Three, and became a highly successful operative. However, after the incident regarding [REDACTED] on [REDACTED] he was returned to the Corps at his original rank. A second offer regarding discreet operations has been made since then but has been refused on the grounds that "I've had enough of ONI and their cloak and dagger shit."_

_Decorations: Has earned three Purple Hearts and several classified commendations for work in the field. Also received a citation from the Director of ONI herself. Details regarding said citation are CLASSIFIED, LEVEL ZERO CLEARANCE REQUIRED._

_Comments: Private Iorio has had a more colorful career than most. His beginnings are relatively inauspicious-enlisting for reasons of patriotism at age 23-but as he showed a natural flair for stealth operations, he was swallowed up by the system, doing the hands-on wetwork for some of our shadiest divisions. It's not often that someone ON LOAN to ONI ends up being returned without any sort of restrictions on his behavior or status-meaning there's probably more to this than what I'm being told. Then again, we all have secrets-and maybe Iorio just wants to keep his. In any case, he's quite a find. Watch him._

_STATUS: In active service._

Olive-skinned due to his Italian roots, Terrence had a confident, beaming smile on his face, a prominent hook nose and greasy black hair, which almost came down to his eyebrows-against regulations. Falconer spent an entire minute silently sizing him up. So this man had been one of ONI's deadliest field workers? He sure as hell didn't look it. But that was nine-tenths of what his job entailed-what appeared to be, and what was.

(FILE 7/10)

_Name: Benson, Walter J._

_Rank: Private._

_Serial number: 11184-90120-WB_

_Date of birth: 26/11/2534_

_Birthplace: Verity, Torus_

_Date of enlistment: 13/8/2553_

_Campaign listing: Battle of Gethrii (still in progress)._

_Unit assignments: Participation in OPERATION: UNSEEN HAND (still in progress)._

_Promotions/Transfers: N/A_

_Decorations: N/A_

_Comments: He's a fresh-faced kid with starry-eyed ambitions to become a goddamn hero of humanity-what more needs to be said? In any case, he scraped through basic training and spent a brief stint under Sergeant Ashcroft at the boot camp at Earth's new HighCom centre, so that may have toughened him up a bit. Also, he has had success at "barf camp", so he can handle his own in the black-and his assistance during the op on the _Lima _ODP was invaluable. His parents have practically disowned him and his homeworld's a cinder-this makes him ideal for combat purposes. No distractions. Assuming the kid doesn't swallow a plasma bolt or a spiker round in the fight to come, we'll see what becomes of him._

_STATUS: In active service._

A shy-looking young man, skinny, pale and freckled with red hair. Falconer dismissed him without a second thought. Not worth his time.

Now that the human squad had been assessed by him, it was time to review the Elite commandos. Their own CSV's had yet to arrive, so what he did have had been contributed by former overseers and superiors that had been part of the Earth delegation-including, he noted with some amusement, the rogue zealot Urit Gebur'. Nonetheless, he would absorb the information as best he could. Tapping a flashing icon, the screen fluxed and threw up new data. It was based upon the UNSC model, and some parts were empty, but currently there was nothing to be done about that.

(FILE 8/10)

_Name: Virot' Dasa._

_Rank: SpecOps Commando, formerly Ranger. NOTE: Is also Lance Chaplain, however, this is a more ceremonial rank and has no bearing on combat performance._

_Serial number: N/A_

_Date of birth: N/A_

_Birthplace: Virot' Plains, Sanghelios_

_Date of enlistment: N/A_

_Campaign listing: Battle of Reach, Battle of Installation 04, Battle of Installation 05, Battle of Earth (Voi), Battle of the Ark, Battle of Gethrii (still in progress)._

_Unit assignments: N/A_

_Promotions/Transfers: Transferred from the Third Lance of the Kalkoro Legion of the U'Beku warrior crèche to the prototype squad._

_Decorations: N/A_

_Comments: An accomplished warrior, Dasa specializes in heavy weapon capabilities, wielding a T-33 LAAW as his weapon of choice. He also carries a Type-25 Carbine "Spiker" as his sidearm-apparently this is due to a matter of irony when facing Brute forces. Has been described as having a heated temper in combat situations and has been reprimanded several times for violent eagerness. Has a healthy respect for humans and has already won several allies among them._

_STATUS: In active service._

Small for an Elite-and yet Falconer sensed immense strength about this one. Something about his unusually muscular lower torso and the fervent glint in his sharklike-eyes made him suspect an iron will. He wondered if the ODSTs would ever admit Elites into their ranks-this one seemed like a prime candidate.

(FILE 9/10)

_Name: Nefur', Gerun_

_Rank: SpecOps Commando Leader, former Zealot._

_Serial number: N/A_

_Date of birth: N/A_

_Birthplace: Aklastos Mountains, Sangheilios_

_Date of enlistment: N/A_

_Campaign listing: Battle of Reach, Battle of Installation 04, Battle of Installation 05, Battle of Earth (Voi), Battle of the Ark, Battle of Gethrii (still in progress)._

_Unit assignments:_

_Promotions/Transfers: Transferred from the Third Lance of the Kalkoro Legion of the U'Beku warrior crèche to the prototype squad._

_Decorations: N/A_

_Comments: Gerun Nefur' is the most seasoned operative out of the entire lance, having twelve cycles (approximately 23 Earth years) of service under his belt. His ascension to the more "elite" (pardon the pun) ranks of the Sangheili military corps have been fairly recent-after distinguishing himself in several battles including the Battle of Reach and several priors. He spent nine years as a zealot before transferring to the SpecOps division, claiming that he "desired something less conspicuous." Rare for an Elite to disdain glory and attention-however, his tactical and leadership abilities are sound, and he has proved an effective co-operative to Sergeant Ashcroft. He uses his Type-1 Energy Sword/Weapon and a Type-33 GML "Needler" as his sidearm of choice._

_STATUS: In active service._

Gerun's armour was not standard-issue SpecOps material-instead, it was decorated with golden streaks and several runes in the Sangheili cuneiform. Apparently these were not indicative of rank or station-the Elite had placed them there himself. ONI had been unable to pull any information regarding the significance of them, if any-only a few garbled words, relating heavily to the typical Sangheili lexicon-"perdition" and "sacrilege." In any case, Falconer saw nothing less than a leader, and everything that it implied. The last file awaited him.

(FILE 10/10)

_Name: Urdoq', Lazu_

_Rank: SpecOps Commando, former Prophet's Marksman (a division of elite snipers used as an independent unit. Have only been used a few times)_

_Serial number: N/A_

_Date of birth: N/A_

_Birthplace: Isbevos' End, Sangehelios_

_Date of enlistment: N/A_

_Campaign listing: Battle of Reach, Battle of Installation 04, Battle of Installation 05, Battle of Earth (Voi), Battle of the Ark, Battle of Gethrii (still in progress)._

_Unit assignments:_

_Promotions/Transfers: Transferred from the Third Lance of the Kalkoro Legion of the U'Beku warrior crèche to the prototype squad._

_Decorations: N/A_

_Comments: Lazu is the youngest of the Lance, and has only fought the humans for 10 years-the most likely reason for his apparent non-enmity with humans. Prior to being transferred to the prototype squad, he spent several missions working closely with human forces-although the final operation was marred by an incident involving Reach-born ODSTs and attempted fratricide (see incident report attached). However, this has not affected his desire to develop closer relations with humans and he seems very clear-headed and logical for an Elite. He wields a Type-51 Carbine and a Type-25 Directed Energy Pistol as a sidearm._

_STATUS: In active service._

This one…..this one evoked some strange, nebulous feeling within the ONI operative, though he could not say what. Something about his steady, almost soft gaze said: _I have secrets. I am not like the others. _Was it just regular old paranoia, a staple of his job? Or-more likely, this-were his razor-honed instincts kicking in again? Perhaps it had something to do with his love of camaraderie with humans…he would learn more when he found him and the rest.

Or _if, _rather.

With a final, satisfied nod, Falconer pressed a final button that would wipe any and all data contained on the pad, and rose from his chair. All the information regarding November Squad had been processed and collated. It was now time for his mission to begin in earnest. He had to find the men he had been assigned to, and quickly. Time to put some feelers out. He exited the tent swiftly, ignoring the glares from the sentries posted outside.

Second Lieutenant Karopolous barely noticed the man as he walked in through the door, and threw him an exasperated frown. "What is it? Be quick, I've got rosters to fill."

The arrival had a strangely unmemorable voice, deliberate and ocean-deep. "I would like you to help me find some soldiers in the 508th battalion. They are accompanied by three Elite commandos. This will no doubt make the task easier. Their identities I can provide."

Karopolous could hardly believe it. "What? Look, buddy-"

Without a word, the man pulled aside a sheaf of black fabric loosely attached to his left breast, and the three stripes and single star of a Commander glinted. Doing the same with his right breast, he revealed a small, circular icon. Inside it was a pyramid with a fathomless black eye gazing at him from its centre. Above the eye: UNSC. Below it: OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE. To the right of this, there was an even smaller pictograph-the silhouette of a man, with a falcon perched upon his outstretched arm.

The lieutenant gave an audible gulp; it seemed as though the ambient noise had died, and all that he could hear was the furious beating of his heart. "Erm, m-my apologies sir. It's just been rather stressful-some companies have yet to find their feet and-"

"I'm not interested."

Mentally, Karopolous checked himself, trying to simultaneously meet and avoid the gaze of this implacable man. It was like that time he'd taken a needle rifle spike to the chest on Dearmarsh-piercing every fibre of his being and laying him bare. "Of course, Commander. It will take some time to locate the men you're after, b-but I think I can delegate some responsibility and speed up my-"

With a fluid movement, the ONI agent moved forward. His tone remained as even as it had been before, but there was no mistaking the steel behind it. "Once again, it is not of interest to me what you do. I give you the objective; you find the ways and the means. Just find them. Before this battle begins. Am I clear, lieutenant? I hope I am." That last sentence sounded like the final clash of prison bars, the axe ringing out upon the chopping block. Karopolous' eyes bulged, and he jerked a swift nod. "Crystal."

Seemingly satisfied, the commander left a data stick upon the table covered with deployment papers and other forms. He flashed a razor-thin smile. "As you were, lieutenant." Turning upon his heel, he moved out the door and was gone.

Karopolous sank back into his chair, massaging his shaved head with trembling hands. A spook. Here. In the camp. Did anyone else know? And what did he want with these men and-even more strangely-Elite commandos? In all his time in the corps, he'd never smelt a whiff this bad. It was honestly frightening for someone of his limited experience. Maybe he should inform the higher-ups….

A moment later he considered the insanity of such a course. Going up against a man with the full backing of ONI? There had to be an easier way of committing suicide. It would be far better to just do the job he had been given. It wasn't like they were sentencing them to a firing squad. Bergen wouldn't stand for that, not even from a spook. Maybe _especially _from a spook.

Resigned to his fate, Karopolous grabbed the data stick and implanted it into his main datapad, which flared to life and began vomiting up new data. Faces and names. Ranks. Identities. He took the time to memorise them-this was bound to be a while. The marines themselves would be easy enough to find, but the Elites were bound to be another matter, even if they were officially attached to the Corps. Then he remembered.

The recently-arrived Elite battalion must have some form of troop assignment, or a liaison at the very least. He could definitely ask them-who knew? Perhaps they could help him out.

He rummaged through a series of papers on the table, until he found what he was looking for-the Sangheili command staff. Not as many as their human counterparts, but then again, this was an undersized group. If there weren't enough to get into the fight properly, then they were all in for dirt naps. Hopefully Bergen had something up his sleeve.

_Battalion CO: Field Marshall Vaenos Ruin'  
1__st__ Legion CO: Field Master Rezu Irutam'  
2__nd__ Legion CO: Field Master Unpu Serof'  
3__rd__ Legion CO: Field Master Nero Urdoq'_

The last Field Master cited, Nero Urdoq', was the Xonnel's official liaison officer, as well as a field commander. Karopolous was momentarily impressed. Usually a liaison officer, such as himself, had next to no combat role-he wasn't even sure he could fire the sidearm belted at his hip. And this one was a bona fide Field Master. Still, the aliens were big on their _pride and honour _battle credo.

He set about finding Urdoq's personal COM frequency, and made some alterations to ensure that the datapad would transmit to an alien equivalent. Once he had done that, he sent a brief communiqué, requesting more information regarding the three Elite commandos listed. After that, he sat back in his chair and returned his attention back to work. A battle might be imminent, but the bureaucracy of the UNSC never ceased, and he was part of that machine, like it or not.

"_Adiramus ovek tuum…  
Adiramus ovek tuum…  
Adiramus ovek tuum…  
Adiramus ovek tuum…"_

The dozens of Sangheili warriors that were attending the sermon commemorating the 185th Xonnel Solstice joined their voices in a bass harmony that thrummed through the desolate rocks and crags that comprised the ridge, a deep hum that permeated the air. It had commenced since the legions had set up their bivouac, and a deep sense of belief ran through the currents of the army. The Prophets might be gone, but the ideologies that had belonged to the Sangheili for so long remained. It would take more than a pack of willow-spined, craven deceivers to break that.

The sermon was divided into cycles, each describing a different time period or momentous battle in the Xonnel's long and illustrious history. Currently, the battle hymn that flowed from the mouths of the assembled congregation chronicled the exploits of the legendary Field Marshall Feyu Vadam', who had broken a deadlock over the Jin'zak asteroid belt held by menacing Kig-Yar pirates in the space of three units, where so many had previously failed. It put fire into the blood and sent the heart thumping in desire for battle.

Holding up one three-fingered hand to shield his gaze against the crimson radiance of the dying sun, Field Master Nero Urdoq' smiled approvingly as he saw that the congregation was comprised majorly of warriors from his own legion. Undoubtedly the entire army was devout, but he felt a surge of pride when those under his command took the initiative, had the internal drive to fill their souls with fervor and belief. It would serve them well in the coming battle.

Nero had been at this a long time. Not that he was the most seasoned individual in the army-indeed, his last few cycles had been ones of relative peace and stability, as he had been among the small garrison left at the Second Ring of the Gods to quell the Flood outbreak and pacify the remnants of the Jiralhanae traitors. However, when the war against the humans had been at its zenith, he had been there, in the depths of space and on the ground. Unlike his fellow warriors, Nero had always been something of a craftsman when it came to war. There was the job to be done and little else. Many did not agree with his method of thinking. Back then, they had called him faithless and apathetic. Heretical, even. Now they called him cool under pressure. _How times change. _Yet, he had not. This was no longer the war, but the task at hand remained the same. Fight the Jiralhanae. To a standstill if necessary.

"Your Excellency! I crave a moment's audience!" An irritating, nasal voice came from behind him, disturbing the melodious hum of the chant. Nero sighed deeply, already knowing who it was. That blasted dandy Creth Baso'Vecci, an eternal thorn in his side. He was not a warrior-the added suffix that denoted a civil servant or official in Sangheili society said as much-yet here he was, marching alongside the finest soldiers that Sanghelios had produced, the Xonnel. It chafed at him more than he'd admitted to himself, an unpleasant fact. He had only been with them for a few units and he was already proving to be a liability, constantly snarking at his decisions and those of his fellow Field Masters. Never directly in front of the troops; that would have been a perishable offence. No, Creth's worked his mendacious methods through information, through tartly worded memos to him regarding "proper Sangheili conduct" and "battlefield ethos" and "immutable edicts handed down by our forefathers." Even before the battle had even started. As loath as he was to admit it, talk was Creth's battlefield, and he was as ungainly on it as the official was upon a real one.

Turning slowly, deliberately, Nero squared himself up and locked gazes with the smirking Elite. "Yes? What is it? Could it be that you have need of the help of a lowly Field Master?" Such verbal jousting was not beyond him; besides, he refused to be cowed by this fool.

Creth bared his mandibles in the Sangheili equivalent of a lazy grin. "Now now, Field Master, let's not have this bickering amongst ourselves. The real enemy lies out there, no?" He pointed across to the other side of the ridge, where the sun was beginning to descend. "And growing ever closer."  
Nero grunted. "Doubtless you would know about that, Creth." He deliberately avoided using his title of Inquisitor, a fact which irritated the man no end. "You have something for me?"

The official nodded, pulling out a sheath of holo-papyrus. "A message for you, worthy leader. From a human liaison, Kar-Op-Oliz. He desires your aid on some matter." He rolled his eyes. "Such human travails bore me. Their obsession with details likewise. Nevertheless, here it is."

The Field Master had been considering pointing out the irony of such a statement, but decided against it. "Thank you for this notification." It stuck in his throat, but as long as Creth made himself scarce, he could stand it. "Our fellows are devout indeed. May I humbly suggest that you join them? Ingratiating yourself with the common troops may well increase your élan in their eyes." His tone was even, yet an undercurrent of malice ran underneath. He had cornered the official. Creth was more or less autonomous, but no matter his sympathies, religious fervor was the quickest way to the hearts of the Xonnel, and to shirk it would make him an outcast in the eyes of all. Accidents could happen all the time. Sometimes, a few overzealous warriors would…take matters into their own hands, so to speak.

Creth's eyes flashed sideways, looking for a way out and not finding many available options. "Ahh…yes. As to that. I'm afraid my ministerial duties-"

"Nonsense!" Nero boomed, making the considerably shorter Sangheili flinch. It was the sort of voice he used when wanting to either inspire or belittle, and it was quite effective in the right circumstances. "All Sangheili who wish to tread the Path should periodically renew their faith. Kantam!" A burly Xonnel commando detached himself from the nearest group of worshippers and thumped up the slope. As Nero's bodyguard and Fist (an executive officer, in human terms), he was more or less responsible for the legion's discipline. This made him perfect for the task at hand. "Our Inquisitor feels the pull of faith. Please escort him to where he can gain some relief from his duties."

Before Creth could put his foot down on the idea , Kantam grinned toothily. "Dost ye faith waver?" he roared into the frightened official's face. For some reason, his second preferred to speak in the old tongue, which was somewhat archaic, yet rather dignified at the same time. Perhaps not right now though. "Follow me, thy majesty, and the champions of the Xonnel shall make sure of thy place in paradise!" Grabbing the protesting official by the arm, he plunged back into the ranks.

Nero had to restrain a laugh. Such a character, Kantam. Completely ruthless on the battlefield, however. Sometimes he had to wonder if there was more Jiralhanae in him than Sangheili. The rumors about him were many, but one he knew was true-after every battle, he would roam the battlefield, hunting for choice parts of Jiralhanae anatomy for his grisly "trophy collection." After a few days they began to stench so bad that they had to be burned, yet his proficiency in battle ensured he was never empty-handed for long.

Then again, perhaps that would serve them well in the battle to come. If reports were true, the enemy host was being spearheaded by Alpha-Chieftain Ferradus. He'd fought alongside him before, back on Reach. Apart from an unpleasant experience proving that the two races could not effectively co-operate (as if he needed anyone to tell him that), he was not a stupid beast as some others thought. He'd made extensive use of Covenant technology, rather than the Jiralhanae's own. Not to be underestimated, under any circumstances.

_Now then. This message. _Nero looked down at it, eyes struggling to parse the ridiculously simple human text. It was a request for personnel information, regarding one of the commando units. He frowned. Strange…they were not from the Xonnel; rather, the Kalkoro. Strictly speaking, they should not be here. The Kalkoro legion was at least four systems away, defending one of the Sangheili border moons against Covenant loyalists. They had showed no signs of moving, particularly when a trio of Jiralhanae assault carriers had arrived to even the odds. Certainly not a losing battle, but neither one to be decided quickly. So why this anomaly?

It was irrelevant, he decided. Sangheili were Sangheili. They would have to fall under someone's jurisdiction…He surveyed the trio of names, and felt a sledgehammer blow to his heart upon reading the third name.

Urdoq', Lazu. SpecOps Marksman.

For a moment he felt like his entire soul was constricted in a vice; he could not move. Then the world returned and his breathing resumed, albeit raggedly. His mind was awash with thoughts. He cast his eyes about for a convenient rock, and seated himself into a position of meditation. Normally he would attempt _jirhaki, _but this was hardly the time or place. His responsibilities would ensure he was not granted more than a few units of respite-he would have to think quickly.

Had his brother arrived to avenge himself? This would explain the sudden appearance of an unsanctioned SpecOps team. While the Xonnel were the deadliest warriors, when it came to stealthy work few were better than SpecOps Elites, save the Ossoona themselves. They could have infiltrated the camp already, and he almost jolted out of his meditation at the thought.

_But no…_As he gave the matter more thought, he realised. The human liaison would never have asked for their identities if they were not in some way relevant to his work. The two armies were remaining independent of the other in terms of deployment. So what was the only possible explanation? This prototype squad he had caught wind of lately. Humanity's best combined with Sangheili commandos. So, they were here. And his brother was a part of it.

His first instinct was to go find his brother and pull him out of whatever mess he'd entangled himself in. Just as when they had been younglings, growing up together in Isbevos' End. Then he realised that at the very least he'd spit in his face, if not outright draw a weapon on him. Cycles might have passed, but he had no doubt that the wounds would still be fresh in his wayward brother's mind. For a moment, he grew heated and cursed his younger sibling. How could he still begrudge him after all this time? He'd been young and idealistic; the Gods damn it, _ambitious. _There'd been one clear way and that had been the way of the-

Nero stopped this line of thought-it would not do him any sort of aid. Instead, he calmly re-examined the message, hoping to find some further clue that would guide him. It seemed simple enough-a message from Kar-Op-Oliz respectfully requesting more information pertaining to the three Elite commandos listed. Despite his….reservations…his duty was clear. Nero was obliged to provide intel to his human counterpart. His hands were effectively tied. A short message to the _Obdurate Resistance _in orbit would soon have him the relevant information, and that would be that.

And yet…

Blood was one of the most imperative standards ever possessed in Sangheili society. It was what separated them from the Jiralhanae, who gave the matter no thought, or the Kig-Yar, who thought exclusively about themselves, or the San'Shyuum, inbred worms that they were. More than just the bonds of family, any fellow warrior who shared blood was expected to be the alpha and omega. To disrespect this edict was death.

He and his brother were no longer close. They could hardly even be considered siblings anymore; it had been megacycles. Still, he was not without loyalty or respect-

Nero frowned suddenly. There was a data link to the names of the three commandos. Apparently they had been derived from a separate file. He searched down the information pathways, until he found the original source. But there was no name. Just a symbol. It looked like a triangle with an eye inside of it. Three letters circumscribed this shape: O.N.I.

So. That made slightly more sense.

He'd heard nothing good about the human intelligence network. Worse than the Ossoona when it came to sneaking about and double-dealing. Their operatives and spies infested the UNSC like helioskrills in a quarry. Not to mention that their poisonous influence was slowly but surely spreading into the Sangheili's dealings with humanity. If they were involved in this request, it could not mean anything good.

His mind made up, Nero returned to the original message and sketched a terse reply. _Well met, Lieutenant. Whilst I am obligated to assist you in your venture, I regret to inform you I cannot help you find what you seek. The three commandos listed are not registered in the ranks of the Xonnel, and as such I can offer no wisdom on their whereabouts. If this changes at any time I will be sure to inform you. Be well._

The humans were not fools. Any could see the correlation between himself and one of the commandos. But there were far more pressing concerns and any skullduggery could wait. Would he pay for his treachery? Only time would tell.

Sighing, he rose from the rock, putting away the datapad. Part of him was tempted to accede to Kar-Op-Oliz's wishes and find out where Lazu was. It was the part of him that had ruled his conscience, when the two brothers had gone their separate ways. But he refused to listen to it any longer. It was a poison.

He slowly descended the slope, hoping that a spell of worship would calm his fevered mind. It had not for the past twelve megacycles, but he never stopped trying.

_Hey there everyone, how goes it? Hope you enjoyed this little slice of Desperate Measures-I had originally intended to release a much bigger chapter, but I think you guys have been patient for long enough. This means that the 2__nd__ half (or rather, the next chapter) will not take long at all! So keep your eyes open for that. In the meantime, enjoy this, and please please please rate/review my new Mass Effect fics! Your reviews are my life-giving pieces of goodness :)_

Will update soon, stay classy!


	20. Chapter 17 Pt 2

The landscape of Gethrii changed rapidly as the sun, HX-112, began its drop towards the horizon. Shadows lengthened with incredible speed, like phantasms racing towards their target. Overhead, as the red-and-amber clouds turned to the colour of charred dust without the sun's illumination, Gethrii's avian population blotted out the sky as they returned to their mountain roosts for the night. In some places, such as basins and quarries, the ground crawled with nocturnal insects and rodents, as they proceeded to begin the night's hunting. Already dangerous during the day, Gethrii became a holy terror during the night, as those that had slumbered previously felt the pull of hunger.

But no matter how vicious they were, they paled in comparison to the hunger and will of the Jiralhanae host, now just minutes away from Futility Ridge.

Ferradus continued to stride confidently along, his footfalls causing plumes of dust to rise with every step. Around him, his bodyguards, numbering at eight, tightened their watch, casting venomous looks into the shadows and darkened crags that surrounded them. One even went several steps out of his way to stomp upon a skrillis beetle, tiny but with a bite that could induce extreme delirium for days. The Alpha-Chieftain had chosen them exclusively for their paranoia, and knew that they would all die to protect him. Throw themselves at the human army if necessary. Their captain Harganus, a hulking mass of muscle better known by the moniker Juggernaut, growled with every step, his hands bunching as he imagined tearing into the humans ranks. Soon the time would come.

He moved forward to talk to Travalrus, whom he had placed in charge of the first wave, which was mostly comprised of Choppers and Ghosts, in a bid to soften up the human defenses before allowing the infantry to set forward. Ferradus hoped to set a precedent; the adjutant-chieftain had distinguished himself of late, thus he was given the honour of drawing first blood. He was confident that Travalrus would fulfill his duties ably. However, this meant that his other chieftains would have to be placated. Ferradus was not a fool. His warriors had spent far too long skulking in the shadows. If he did not give them a fight, then his position of leadership, without the backing of other Alphas or the Prophets, would be sorely tested. He mentally reviewed the other four adjutant-chieftains that would be his blades in the fight to come.

Strabus Ironhead, who had served since first contact with the humans. He had been part of the crew of the _Rapid Conversion, _which had since been decommissioned. Although it had never been proven, it was said that his first loyalty had been to Maccabeus and certainly not to Tartarus, which may have explained his relegation to the backwater colony of Assail in the late years of the war. But Ferradus had heard of his legendary fighting ability, and had him brought here to Gethrii. Perhaps he was not as devout as other Jiralhanae, yet his mind was all for fighting, hence his nickname. Ironhead also possessed an unusually good grasp of tactics for one of their race. He would fight on Travalrus' extreme right flank, on the southernmost side of the valley.

Yervius Gorefist, a particularly vile individual that even Ferradus had trouble stomaching. He was a runt by Jiralhanae standards, but then again his bloodline was rather loathsome-rumors of incest abounded. Worst of all, he possessed a rather sniveling brand of ambition; he was only too happy to gain advancement dishonorably, more often than not at the expense of other, more worthy, Jiralhanae. His only real value was that he excelled at stealthy maneuvers and quiet work, a fact which had made him the commander of the Stalkers on Gethrii. He would be on the valley's northernmost side. He would only truly enter the battle if Sevakus was hard pressed. Until then, he would act in a support capacity and send his stealth warriors ahead to wreak havoc in the enemy ranks. And with the night approaching, what chaos there would be!

Sevakus Hotblade, who was covered in more scars than the entire command council combined. Somewhat of a traditionalist, he and his pack were infamous for charging straight into the ranks to engage in close quarters. This practice, while admirable, had cost him many lives in his time and would not be amenable for this battle. However, if the opportunity presented itself, Ferradus would have no problem with giving him free rein-he functioned as an excellent tip of the spear. His name was derived from the long, barbed blade he carried, which he had made from the handle of his father's own warhammer. Before fighting, he would dip it in raw plasma, which gave it a biting edge comparable to that of a Sangheili energy sword. His clan was the Irritak, which-to put it lightly-put him at odds with the last adjutant-chieftain. He would be positioned upon Travalrus' immediate left flank, beside Gorefist.

Mortius Tenways, a proud member of the Drinjan clan and accordingly a mortal enemy of Sevakus. Their feud had not yet erupted into the internecine warfare which characterised most Jiralhanae disputes, yet it was only a matter of time. He took a sadistic delight in creating new and inventive ways to maim and kill the enemy, which meant he held the unofficial position of head weapons specialist of the Jiralhanae army. His pack was the best equipped force in the army, currently carrying his prototype explosive weaponry. The width and breadth of his dire intellect had eventually coined the joke that Mortius would find "ten ways" to kill an enemy, rather than just one. He would fight on Travalrus' immediate right flank, and with any luck would help punch through by the dint of his advanced weaponry.

Together, this motley crew of warriors formed what the humans would have called a "command staff." Over time, he had found that Travalrus was the most-liked and most-respected out of the lot, not only by the members of the army but by the adjutant-chieftains themselves. This only strengthened Ferradus' reasoning in putting him in charge of the first wave. After that, however, the main front would be shared between him, Hotblade and Tenways. Gorefist and Ironhead would make their own push, or act in a support capacity if need be. If what his scouts had told him was true, the ridge ahead-which he had coined Talmetush, or "boneyard" in the tongue of the Alphas-had various ways and paths across to the other side. He intended to make use of that, particularly while the sun was still down.

Unfortunately, this meant making use of Gorefist. While Ferradus despised him, none could doubt his potential for sowing chaos in the enemy ranks. He and his Stalker cadres were made for this sort of warfare. While the humans were concerned with the arrival of the host in earnest, they could quietly slip across the riverbed and deal out some demoralising slaughter.

Sighing inwardly, the Alpha-Chieftain directed his small entourage through the ranks, shouldering aside any others in his path, heading for the far side of the army, where Yervius and his three-hundred strong band of Jiralhanae stealth warriors were marching. Along the way, he found Travalrus, plodding along, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Sound the halt. We will camp here before proceeding unto the ridge to do battle." His second-in-command nodded, and within a few units the army had pulled to a stop. The squeaking Unggoy congregated into groups quickly, and the relentless humming of the aircraft above became quieter as their engines cooled. Jiralhanae quickly put together makeshift lean-to's and tents, Kig-Yar formed rough circles made of whatever wood they had managed to salvage, and the Unggoy jabbered and barked as they gathered around heat cubes and food nipples. The entire host required a rest before the hammer fell, and Ferradus had no qualms about granting them one. Gold-armored pack leaders roared out orders for scouts and watchmen to take their places, and for the picket lines to be formed. Despite the general halt, the members of each separate wave remained in their divisions, in the event of an attack by the humans or Sangheili.

He saw Harganus sauntering just beside him, and beckoned him closer. "I aim to have words with our stealth operations commander. What say you?"

Not very much, was his usual response. Even so, his bodyguard grunted, sending a vibration through the ground. "Gorefist." A grimace of the mouth. "Never good."

And that was it, more or less.

************************************************************

The minor Jiralhanae warrior shrieked in terror as the Stalker materialized out of nowhere, his camouflage sheath crackling. "Boo!" he shouted, showing yellowed fangs. With a very undignified scramble, the minor scurried back to his subpack, pride long gone.

The stealth warrior shared a laugh with his fellows, who also appeared out of thin air. "Such weaklings we have among us, "one of them hissed contemptuously. His companions growled agreement.

The first Stalker growled deep in his throat. "Such an army of fools we travel with, brothers! You see the vaunted discipline of Ferradus in action." He nodded in the direction of the cowering brute, amid general laughter. He turned back to them, idly fingering the blade on one of his combat knives. "I expected better-"

"Your kind often do."

The Stalker turned, and promptly had his skull shattered into pieces. A mighty swing of Harganus' fists had pulped his head like an overripe melon. As the Stalker's body fell to the ground, crunching wetly upon the rocks and dirt, his fellows snarled their outrage and fell into fighting crouches, hands going to weapons. Other rank-and-file soldiers surrounding them edged back nervously. This was not a fight they wished to join.

The second Stalker to speak glared at Harganus, who stood with fists bunched, tall and unapologetic. "You killed my pack-mate! For that you will pay-"His hand grasped a jagged shuriken, pulled back, and tensed to throw.

With incredible speed for one so large, Harganus moved forward and pulled him into the air by his neck, causing him to gag. The shuriken clattered to the ground. 'I would not, "he rumbled,"advise that."

"And neither would I." Ferradus stepped languidly into what little light there was left from behind a rock. All eyes immediately drew to him. Never mind the bloodthirsty Stalkers, or the furred colossus holding one of them in thrall. He was the Alpha-Chieftain, and his presence was more than law. It was fist, iron and blood. His skin cloak flapped loosely in the cooling breeze, and the head of the Fist of Mathrok glinted dully. The ambient noise faded, and was replaced by a terrified silence. No-one dared move or speak.

He moved to stand next to Harganus, and made a subtle motion with his hand. The bodyguard dropped the insolent Jiralhanae to the ground, where he sprawled coughing and wheezing. Harganus stepped back, where he continued to glare ferociously at the remaining Stalker. Ferradus crouched over the prostrated one, and idly drew a short-yet-jagged knife from a sheath on his muscular ankle. "You know, "he said almost dreamily, "it has been some time since I last added to this garment of mine." He indicated his cloak. "I am sure it would not be greatly soiled by the hide of a moronic traitor such as you. One more or less; what does it matter?" He raised the knife. "What think you?"

The Stalker's eyes widened in fear. "N-no! Please, Excellency, spare me! I-I merely thought-"

"Thought is a fine thing." Seemingly satisfied with this response, he stood, but continued to flip the knife about in his hands. "Thought walks hand in hand with initiative, which is something I prize, unlike the rabble that stands for leaders these days." He cast a withering look at a knot of red-armored majors, who recoiled. "Yet it becomes a troublesome thing, when one _has nowhere to put it!"_

The knife swept down and across in a gleaming arc, and scored a deep, vicious cut across the Stalker's face. He roared with pain and immediately clutched hands to the wound, from which purple-red blood gushed out in a torrent. The roaring quickly ceased, however, as the knife moved again, this time to slit his throat from ear to ear. It became a sobbing, choking sound, as blood filled the unlucky alien's throat. The last Stalker looked on in despair, but dared not move. Another two of the bodyguard had appeared, and had their prized Mangler support weapons trained on him.

Ferradus sighed, as if all of his daily travails involved killing his own and he had grown tired. "These creatures require discipline. Without it, we are no better than beasts." He sheathed the knife, and, clasping his paws, looked about with a vicious leer. "A lesson for you all, no? My eyes and ears are everywhere. Curb your tongues; else you will lose far more than this one before you perish and go to the Seven Hells."

"Hail Alpha-Chieftain Ferradus!" shrieked Harganus, and the previously dead air became filled with the clanking of fists against armor and the manic yells of Jiralhanae, Unggoy and Kig-Yar alike. No-one dared to abstain. It was as Ferradus had said-a lesson. The only alternative to servility was death. Not for nothing had he become a feared leader across several worlds.

When the noise had died down, Ferradus turned back to Harganus, still ignoring the dying squeals of the Stalker he had "disciplined." "Wait at the boundary of Gorefist's camp. I will make him listen without the threat of force." What he meant of course was _without the threat of anyone else's force, _but it did not do to argue the Alpha-Chieftain's meaning. Harganus jerked a stiff nod, and beckoned to the rest of the security detail. "What of this wretch?"

Ferradus passed the barest of glances over the Stalker, who now had copious blood in his lungs and had begun to kick and shriek. "Him? Let him bleed."

***********************************************************

It was all going so splendidly well.

The meat, the weather, the war with the humans and Sangheili, the cool breeze at his back, the comely young female rubbing his overworked shoulders-all of it screamed perfection. Yervius Gorefist, the legendary serpent in the shadows, the most cunning Jiralhanae to ever have lived, sighed in contentment and tilted his head back, and idly began to count the stars that were visible through the smog and clouds. He had quite the affection for such finer things, unlike his boorish and oh-so-predictably _brutish _kinsmen. Their pejorative nickname was well earned, he thought. Where was their appreciation for things that did not involve battle, blood and the discharge of weapons? A cultural tragedy, indeed.

He muttered a few lascivious words to the female, who simpered obsequiously. There were not many females on this ash-heap of a planet, and he counted his lucky stars-_pun entirely intended, _he thought smugly-that he had gained the attention of this one. Such a specimen. Dark eyes, fur like sable…she reminded him of his sister, who had been a great beauty. When combined with the greasy goodness of the meat, the warm fire at his feet, it was all so _good-_

"Chieftain, if I may…"

He opened his eyes, and stifled a groan. It was one of his lieutenants, though the term was not applied as such. Neroktus, one of his instruments in the field. Neroktus, a capable killer in all circumstances. Neroktus, who never ceased his strutting before the others under his command, and for whom popularity was paramount. Already he had undermined his authority several times-no doubt in a pathetic attempt to emulate his own unique flair. Not to mention he was almost a head taller than him. It would be a good idea to have him killed soon, he reflected. "Yes, what is it, Neroktus?"

The stripling bowed low. "Alpha-Chieftain Ferradus has entered our bivouac, Chieftain. He commands an audience." Neroktus moved off to one side.

That was no surprise; the self-proclaimed leader of this army was forever commanding this and commanding that, without subtlety. Still, he was not an idiot, which made him dangerous enough. Time to assume the persona of the fawning underling. He bid the female to leave for a time, and sat upright, hands clasped together in the pose of an attentive listener. "I am ready to receive our most worthy Alpha-Chieftain Ferradus, dread leader of us all." His voice echoed out over the Stalker camp, in what he hoped was a resounding tone of voice.

"Such a loud voice you have, Yervius. I thought one of your ilk would be more predisposed towards quiet." Ferradus marched into the firelight, blinking slowly. His eyes were filled with a latent hostility. Yervius could not, for the life of him, understand why he detested him so. Oh, there was all that business about promotion and recognition, but surely he didn't take it to heart…did he? It was naught but a delicious game to play.

Yervius ignored the remark and knelt at his feet, kissing the dirt between Ferradus' splayed feet. "Your Excellency, my camp is honoured. You desired my presence?"

'It would be a stretch to say that I _desired _it, "he replied, staring coolly back at Yervius. "But I do require your assistance in the battle to come." He made this sound like the most unpleasant chore he had ever undertaken. Yervius' gut twisted again. This was not going well. "I understand my role, Alpha-Chieftain. I am to simultaneously provide support for Chieftain Sevakus-"_that clod-_"and seek a way to advance behind enemy lines. I will leave the hardest fighting to those better qualified." This meant Travalrus _(too ancient, that one)_ and that barbarous old fuck Tenways.

But Ferradus shook his head. "Correct. However, I believe that some stealth warfare before the main clash would not go amiss. You will take your Stalkers across the riverbed in Talmetush and sabotage what you can while the sun remains down. You will also receive some…special aid during your mission. I will have control over this-so be on your guard and do not be caught in the crossfire. You will proceed in exactly three units. Be armed and ready. I want your men ready to die but happier to kill. Understood?"

Dying had never stood very high on Yervius' list of priorities. Still, he _was _the Gorefist for a reason. Although he disdained out-and-out warfare on account of its general messiness, he had a loving appreciation for stealth and infiltration. It took a razor-honed mind such as his to deliver approximate, uncompromising death. He would enjoy this assignment. "May I inquire as to the nature of this aid? I would like to brief my warriors on all the possibilities." He gave the equivalent of a winning smile.

Of course, winning smiles did not count for much amongst Jiralhanae, even less than good looks. Ferradus gave a single, indifferent shrug. "High explosives. Aerial artillery, for lack of a better term. The human forces will not be expecting it, I assure you. Now then. Once you have caused sufficient chaos, pull your forces back and report. If I am satisfied with your efforts, then Travalrus will commence with the first wave. You will then take your position alongside Hotblade. That is all I am expecting of you."

It was nice to be so appreciated. There was one issue, though. "What if my efforts are not up to scratch?" _Efforts,_ such a condescending term for what he was planning.

Suddenly he was reminded why the Alpha-Chieftain scared him so much. In those private moments, mostly at night, when he visualised that murderous face rushing at his. All of his schemes and ambitions laid bare and made redundant, by the small matter of a spike impaling his heart. Or a plasma blast immolating him. Or a warhammer crushing his-  
"_Are you listening?"_

He jerked back to reality with a start. Ferradus was terrifyingly close, standing over him like an executioner. "Erm, my apologies, Excellency. What did you-"

"Do not think, "he hissed dangerously, "that I enjoy calling upon your skulking, whining services. You disgust me, Gorefist, in every single way possible. Were the need for you and your slimy pack of murderers any less pressing, I would delight in having you hung, drawn and quartered. And believe me when I _say-"_he now dropped down to Yervius' eye level, his own burning with inherent hate-"that is a mercy compared to what my fellow Alphas would do."

Yervius didn't say a word. He didn't dare.

Abruptly, he pulled back. "You are treading on thin ground, thinner than the obsidian flats of Doisac. Fail me and I will do my utmost to outstrip whatever punishment your pathetic imagination can devise. Now, get to work." He turned swiftly around and was gone.

Yervius exhaled the breath he had been holding ever since he'd drifted off and roused Ferradus' ire. Shaking his head, he got up and began to pace furiously. A few of his warriors watched him from around the fire. None could say what was going through his head.

After about a minute he ceased pacing and looked down at his paws. They did not match the rest of him-notched and scarred, covered with criss-crossing lines from shrapnel and deep welts from burns. No matter what he did, he never managed to abstain long enough from his work that they healed sufficiently. Oh, he'd heard all that rubbish about the blood staining your hands never going away, but this…this seemed far worse. Here was the constant reminder that life was brutal, life was messy, and life could get taken away _very quickly _if you weren't careful…

He snapped his head up, and fixed Neroktus with a wild-eyed glare. "Gather the men. At once. We must prepare for our incursion, without delay!"

His lieutenant seemed reluctant. "But, Chieftain, the men have been marching all day-"

"_At once!"_

While Neroktus scurried off, Yervius wiped away the sweat that had gathered on his brow and growled. It was still his show, _special aid _or no. He walked swiftly towards his own personal clutch of Unggoy, who had been toting his possessions all day long. Two had even perished from lack of methane. He cared not. All his personal effects were here, and that was what mattered. Barking at them to be gone, he rifled through the packs and found what he was looking for: his prized sidearm, which he called _Crying Shame. _Already possessed of two wickedly-sharp bayonets on either side, Spiker-style, the snub-nosed gun also had a thin, gleaming needle above the barrel. This needle could deliver a silent-but-deadly shock of focused plasma to a victim's body, and effectively cause their insides to vaporise. Such an effect usually resulted in a sudden outpouring of bodily fluids, which was where the sadistic firearm had received its name. It fired enhanced spiker rounds that were made of a different type of igneous material-they did not glow, but remained black, and could even be fine-tuned to explode upon contact. A weapon of mayhem indeed, but he would not fire unless he had to. He was, after all, a stealth warrior. It was high time he started thinking like one.

He turned, and gazed at the ominous black shape of the ridge ahead. Just over that was the enemy, in their thousands. With tanks, vehicles, guns, armor and a will to fight. And, if the reports were true, Sangheili of the Xonnel legion. The best of the best.

_Time to put on my armor._


	21. Chapter 17 Pt 3

His little discourse with Yervius completed, Ferradus gathered the rest of his chieftains together, inside a small, circular cave he'd discovered. The roof of it was hollow, and occasional bursts of starlight streamed in. None of them were paying any attention to that, however. The battle was imminent, and every single one of them were tightly drilled and focused upon fighting the humans. When they weren't busy fighting with each other.

He'd had one of his Unggoy servants, Kibtib, lug in a small but powerful holo-table that they'd managed to steal from a Sangheili detachment some units past. Although the intel they had on the valley itself was limited, it would have to be enough. As Ferradus presided over the meeting, the only other light being from the holo-table and the few wicker torches they'd set up inside the cave, Kibtib watched fearfully from the shadows.

Unlike most of his kin, Kibtib possessed some measure of intelligence, and could communicate in almost every language of the Covenant, save the Yanme'e's incessant chirping and the squeaks and whistles of the Huragok. However, he had not lived as long as he had by demonstrating it openly. His old teacher, a kindly old Deacon called Burtub, had advised him to keep to the shadows and appear less than he was. So far, this principle had worked well. Now, however, he was wondering if even that would get him through this war council. Here before him were some of the biggest and fiercest names on Gethrii, and all of them deserved. To them, a thing like him was an irritating swamp fly to be brushed aside in a moment.

Travalrus, the Alpha-Chieftain's majordomo and second, standing at attention beside Ferradus, his fur well trimmed and even his expression militant and uncompromising. It did not waver at any point; the man's self-control was legendary. Sometimes Kibtib wondered if he wasn't hiding some ulterior motives. A face like that certainly could. His own warhammer was pitiful next to Ferradus', with a simple, unfurnished black head. There wasn't a whole lot else to him. His clan would fight and be glad of it. His enmity with the other chieftains was minimal, making him an exception to the general rule. He carried a prototype double-barreled Type-25 plasma rifle at his hip. The shiny crimson surface caught his eye, but he curbed his natural desire for such things.

Sevakus Hotblade, his bestial face split apart in a rictus grin of pure violence. More beast than man, he couldn't keep still, twitching and shuddering like one of the benzene addicts from Bahalo. His own clan was little better, a wild mess of blood lusting apes that could barely restrain themselves from heading over the ridge and finding some humans to slaughter. In many respects, Kibtib thought, he was the easiest to control: Ferradus had but to point him towards a fight and he'd be satisfied. Politics and power games did not faze him. Apparently his champion, a monster from the Semk clan, had been lost at the annihilation of the third bastion. This had not improved his temper, and the notched, gleaming sword over his shoulder looked ready to kill. The fact that Tenways was a patriarch of his most hated clan did not soothe matters. Apart from a Type-25 brute shot grenade launcher over his shoulder, his armament consisted of sharp metal. And lots of it.

Strabus Ironhead, his visage as battered and weathered as a cliff face and about as happy. His colossal frown stood out like the sun, and Kibtib was petrified that it would be turned upon him. For Strabus, the war against the infidels held no pleasure, no sense of satisfaction; he was doing it for his own reasons. His loyalty was all for Ferradus, so there was no chance of an uprising there, but no fire lit his belly from within. However, he had the most experience out of anyone in the entire army, and thus Ferradus deferred to his expertise in many matters. But not, Kibtib suspected, this one. It was such a sense of tactics that spurred the venomous arguments between himself and Hotblade-they differed on strategy in all things, like a pair of young youngbloods brawling in the dirt. He bore a Type-25 mauler pistol on each hip.

And finally, one that could be hated by all comers. Mortius Tenways, his face uglier than sin, covered in moth-eaten patches of matted fur and leering like an old pervert. Kibtib wondered how such a towering intellect could be concealed behind a disgusting visage. Tenways was driven by his imagination, and a more perverse imagination was hard to find. His belief was that research had to be conducted in realistic a manner as possible, which had resulted in the deaths of many of Kibtib's fellows, as well as Kig-Yar-though their losses saddened him less. None could doubt Tenways' findings, however, and Ferradus often unleashed him as an unpredictable catalyst in battle. He made a point of threatening Sevakus with death at least once a meeting, something all had learned to take in their stride. He had been called fresh from testing, and bore no weapons, but was covered in cuts and burns from his "experiments." A luminous blue splatter decorated his arm. Kibtib's stomach twisted with unease.

Yervius Gorefist, hated by all, would not be attending. There was a small victory, at least. Ferradus leaned over the table, inputting tactical data. The holo-streams spluttered to life, and the rocky crags of Talmetush appeared. Red dots indicated the human positions as best they could determine, and purple dots indicated their own. He moved back a step. "Now, then." His head snapped towards Kibtib, and he flinched back. "Kibtib! Man the projectors, and make changes when I instruct you." He dashed forward and stood ready, but was unable to disguise a tremble.

Sevakus chuckled maniacally, his fangs bared. "The little rabbit quails, Excellency. Perhaps he would serve better as a meal?" He took a step forward, and Kibtib nearly voided his bowels.

Tenways chuckled insidiously, his eyes dead as he cast his gaze over Kibtib. "Only a primitive like you would think in such limited terms, Sevakus. An Unggoy is far better as weapons practice." He idly fingered the stain on his arm suggestively.

Ironhead chuckled dryly. "With any luck, the Unggoy will serve both purposes. Sevakus, you will choke to death on his scrawny hide. And you, Tenways, your weapon will misfire and consume you in the blast." Nothing about his tone suggested he was joking.

And Travalrus did not chuckle at all, but fixed each of the trio with fierce glares. "We have more pressing concerns, Chieftains. Restrain your petty squabbles for the time being!"

Glaring sullenly at each other, the trio of war chieftains grumbled their way into a silence. Ferradus gazed at them with a faint smirk of approval. "You have the battle lust upon you, brothers. That is good. But mind that it is concentrated upon the proper foe." His tone was jovial, yet it said, in no uncertain terms: _pay attention._

He spread his paws upon the holo-table's surface. "Now then. As far as we know, the human forces and their Sangheili auxiliaries have already dug in on the other side of Talmetush. They possess considerable infantry strength, armor, air support and the help of their specialists in the form of the Imps and the Xonnel operatives. Needless to say, this battle will be close. I believe our best method to win will be through attrition. The humans have been on this planet for far too long and grow weary. We, on the other hand, have been marshalling our strength for many cycles now. There will never be a better time to strike than this.

"No doubt that the humans have already seeded our side of the ridge with all manner of traps and devices-it will be some effort to ensure that these do not unduly impede our progress. However, I will leave these duties to the Huragok and Yanme'e, rather than removing honest warriors from combat. Those not crucial to the battle that is." He smiled briefly. The pit in Kibtib's stomach lessened slightly. More of his kin would survive, perhaps. Better removing traps than being cannon fodder.

He realised just in time that Ferradus was pointing at him. "Initiate scheme one!" Hastily, he punched the sequence of buttons that he had memorised, and watched the projectors flare. A clutch of purple dots moved away from the main host and across the riverbed. "Our esteemed colleague, Yervius Gorefist, will commence the attack-"

"That runt?" Hotblade spat, smashing his fist into the wall and causing several surface cracks. "Does he even know how to fight a battle? It would seem his talent lies in staying towards the back-"

Ferradus turned to him and arched a single eyebrow. This gesture was enough to cow the savage chieftain into silence. Impressive.

The Alpha continued to speak. "Gorefist may be a coward and a runt, but his skill for stealth warfare is worthy of note. I don't care if he fails to return from his mission, and all his lackeys die with him. If nothing else, he will sow some mayhem in the enemy ranks. Who knows, he may even earn himself some glory in that instance. Though I expect the Prophet of Truth himself to appear in a vision before that happens." A round of sycophantic laughs went up around the cavern. Kibtib remembered that only one megacycle ago, Ferradus had been one of many Alphas kneeling to the Covenant Hierarch during the conquest of the human homeworld. Now he spoke openly of blasphemy. _How times change. _Ironhead had not joined in with the joke.__

"Now then. Gorefist will be receiving some backup during his incursion, though the nature of this support remains…" He sniffed and spat to one side. "Classified. The less anyone knows the better. I will oversee it personally. We need not fear counterattack, as the humans will be too busy shoring up their own defenses in the aftermath. While it is still dark, the host will bivouac on this side of Talmetush. When dawn occurs, the first wave will commence and the battle will be joined. Travalrus?"

The second-in-command nodded intently. "Alpha-Chieftain?"

"You will lead off with your clan and the Impalers, with artillery support to pave the way for your advance. Establish a position near the riverbed and assault the trenches, but do not over-commit. I want your position to be solid and secure. If you require assistance, get word back to me and I will send levies; else, contact Hotblade or Tenways if you find yourself hard pressed. Hotblade?"

"To the slaughter, Chieftain."

Ferradus shook his head. "Keep yourself in check, Sevakus, or the humans will make you pay for it. If we press the advantage, I will give you and your clan free reign, but until then, merely guard Travalrus' flank and provide a good fight. You may not get to bloody your sword in this instance. Do you understand?"

Sevakus seemed put out by this, but nodded stiffly. "I do, Chieftain." He made to sharpen his skinning knife, but settled instead for grinding his fangs. Kibtib knew that look. It was the look of a Jiralhanae holding himself back. _A beast like Hotblade will not remain like that for long._

"If you require assistance, Gorefist can provide something. Ironhead?"

The sober old Jiralhanae leveled his gaze at Ferradus, meeting him eye to eye. No sign of servility, but no defiant fire in the eyes either. "Chieftain."

Ferradus returned his almost-blank stare. "You will have a portion of the artillery in your command. The humans will not expect a flank commander to make any sort of concerted push, and that is where we will surprise them. Keep them in reserve, initially. Then when I give the signal, form a spearhead with the wraiths and push forward. Destruction is what I want. Make their flank a mangled thing which can be exploited. But do not be reckless! Take what ground you can, and get across the riverbed if possible. If you require reinforcements for such a task-"

Strabus cut in tersely. "I won't."

The other adjutant-chieftains started at this, but Ferradus continued unfazed. "-then send word back to me. I am willing to give you the entire air wing if we can break their backs this way. Especially if the bastard Sangheili are unfortunate enough to find themselves there!" A brief, lusty roar sounded from their throats. By far, this was the part of the battle they were looking forward to most. The humans rarely gave them a challenge worth fighting, but the Sangheili were traitors and heretics to be punished. A most worthy foe.

Their leader turned to the last adjutant-chieftain. "Tenways."

The brute grinned lecherously, exposing yellowed fangs with black gums. 'Made for glory, O wise and fearless leader." It was unusual for a subordinate Jiralhanae to make such facetious remarks, but Tenways produced results, so Ferradus allowed it.

"You will hold the bulk of your forces in reserve until Travalrus and Hotblade have established their positions. Make it seem as though you are no real threat to the humans; even send a few decoy teams forward to gauge their own strength, and they will scorn you and your efforts." Mortius huffed at this, though he knew what was coming. "Then, when their attention is reduced, _strike!" _Ferradus banged his hand on the holo-table for emphasis. "Outfit your warriors with your new prototype weaponry, form a spearhead like Strabus and make them pay for their gullibility!" Tenways brayed with laughter, a horrific noise. 'If you can, co-ordinate with Ironhead and attack simultaneously. It may just tip the battle in our favour."

Tenways glanced aside to Ironhead, who gave him his fiercest frown. The two had never been on the best of terms, mostly because Mortius thought of Ironhead as an outdated relic and he considered Tenways to be an unstable, insubordinate maniac. The Drinjan clan leader leered. 'I'll see what I can rustle up."

"Good." Ferradus nodded at Kibtib, who began his work again. Now that the tension in the room had lessened somewhat, he felt a lot better. "Our forces, therefore, will be arrayed like this." The purple mass spilled forward, over the blue crest of the ridge, and onto the slopes. Five pulsing orange icons, each at the head of a triangular segment, glided cross the holographic surface and halted at the riverbed. Ferradus' own sigil remained at the top of the ridge, where his command post would be located. Smaller green dots along the length of the ridge indicated artillery positions. However, there were many gaps in the landscape owing to lack of intelligence, and these remained a blank criss-crossing of blue lines. The Alpha-Chieftain spread his hands expectantly. "Your scouts have been deployed; what news can you tell me?"

Travalrus cleared his throat. "We intercepted a human transmission from one of their advance squads. It concerns the dimensions of the riverbed in Talmetush. Thirty metres wide and five metres deep, that translates to…" He frowned as he parsed the human measurements. "Three units wide, half a unit deep."

"Interesting, "Ferradus mused. As he did so, Kibtib input this new data, and the riverbed became more distinct. "The humans could easily bog us down in such an area. Fill it with explosives and attritional warfare until we lie dead in droves. But on the other hand…" He consulted a datapad on one side of the table and nodded decisively. "Travalrus, you have five Mgalekgolo pairs at your disposal, yes?" Travalrus nodded in confirmation. "I am sending you three more bond-mates, but keep their general number back until you are in a position to advance across the riverbed. Nothing can best their might in such a confined space."

Here, Kibtib watched closely, though keeping one eye on his duties. A curling of his left fist indicated he was not pleased with this new development, although the Unggoy could hardly understand why. Then it hit him: without the Mgalekgolo, he would be hard pressed to defend against the humans. Of course, his status as second-in-command left no room for doubts. Travalrus smiled thinly. "Perhaps now the humans will have a chance of winning, Chieftain?"

Ferradus chuckled. "Perhaps, old friend, perhaps." The Alpha returned his attention to the datapad, and missed the flash of resentment in his subordinate's eyes. "Anything else?"

Tenways coughed audibly, sending phlegm across the cave. "I sent forth a few of my new spy drones. Modelled them on the human design, but more stealth ablative coating so they won't be detected as easily. Also layered them with the hide and feathers of Gethrii's desert birds. They've evolved to fly unseen in the night, you see, fascinating evolutionary trait-"  
"Get to the damn point!" Ferradus barked.  
Tenways looked a little hurt, but took a deep slobbery breath and continued. "Anyway, they found the human artillery positions."

"We already know the location of those-"

The scabrous Jiralhanae lifted a finger and winked, his trademark leer once again in place. "Ahh, Chieftain, but I was referring to the ones we _didn't_ know about. Yonder on the human side of Talmetush, there are two outcrops near the riverbed. Foothills. Seems that they've put a few of their cannons in place there. I also think the Sangheili have reinforced these places by now. Certainly, at least a hundred per position. Those hinge-headed shits don't make anything easy by half, do they?" He snarled a little, and spat again. Kibtib was starting to wonder if he'd get cleaning duty as well as his usual tasks.

Ferradus scowled. 'It matters not. They cannot fire their guns if none remain alive to man them. Where are these outcrops located?" Tenways stepped up to the holo-table and jabbed his finger. "Here and here, western side, astride the riverbed. That means Travalrus, Gorefist and-"his face flashed with a grin-"Hotblade. Enjoy yourselves, boys. Can't say I'm envious of you, but..." Sevakus hissed malevolently, hand immediately going to one of his many knives. "I'll make you envious of anyone with a working face, you miserable-"

Travalrus leaned over and smashed his fist into Mortius' mouth, wiping the smirk from it. He squawked as he fell down, spitting out blood. He made as if to lunge at Travalrus, but a plasma rifle aimed at his face discouraged this course of action. Breathing heavily, his face now screaming murder, Tenways licked his lips and fell silent. Hotblade giggled maniacally and did the same.

Their leader went on as if nothing had happened. "So be it. You three will have to fight twice as hard, but that is the Jiralhanae way. Inform Gorefist of this development, if he makes it back."

'That reminds me." Ironhead spoke up, idly polishing a fingernail on his power armor. "In the event of Gorefist's passing, who will take his place?"

"His lieutenant, Neroktus, has proven himself to be a capable warrior and far less repulsive than his superior. He will be a suitable replacement. If he dies…well, I will assign someone to the role. Do not concern yourselves with it." He cast a final warning look at his adjutants before moving on.

"We have approximately seven units until the dawn breaks. Ensure that your clans are ready to move when two units remain. We must be swift and deadly, like a striking boa. These datapads-"he waved at a pile of them-"are yours. Orders will be transmitted to these, as I do not want to risk being overheard via radio. Slower, perhaps, but safer.  
"As for myself, I will be holding a position atop the ridge, where I can see all. The levies will be held on the slopes, along with our own fortifications. If the need is dire, I myself will enter the fray. If not, then I will remain there for the duration."

The entire group shifted uneasily, and Ferradus noticed. An edge came into his voice. "Is there something you find wrong with this?" he inquired calmly.

Through unspoken agreement, Ironhead (as the most senior) ducked his head. "Your pardon, Alpha-Chieftain, but tradition dictates that you must lead us from the forefront, as our ancestors would have done. That is the Jiralhanae way."

For a moment no-one dared to even breathe. Ironhead had spoken words tantamount to defiance. Who dared question the command of the Alpha-Chieftain? That in itself was storied tradition. The Jiralhanae were but a great heap, and whoever stood at the top made the rules that bound all that fought below. Kibtib only had a limited understanding, but his foot began to twitch nervously. This would _not _be good.

Ferradus broke the silence by letting out a great sigh. It whistled around the dimly lit cave and came back to him. "Our ancestors would have done so, yes. They would have looked for the glory and prestige that came from leading at the front, drawing upon their fathers' legacies, and their fathers before them. A simple philosophy." He paced as he said this, but came to an abrupt stop. His eyes hardened, and fists curled into balls as he stared down the whole command council.

"_We are not them._ They were little more than rutting savages each seeking to be king over a radioactive, desolate wasteland. Thinking no further than the next battle, the next scalp, the next conquest. Glorious ancestors? Let me tell you, _they were fucking morons!" _The spit flew from his mouth as he raged, eyes turning red as the blood rushed to them. "Because of them, Doisac became a barren shitpile! And they were forced to accept aid from the cursed Prophets, who took us from our culture and threw us into the Covenant. The blasted _Covenant."_ There had never been more loathing in his voice before he said that word.

"The Covenant destroyed us. As a people, as a race. We were primitive, but we were proud. Then we started killing not only ourselves, but the world on which we evolved. To the point where we became subservient to a group of quibbling fools in floating chairs!" He grabbed Kibtib by the side of the head and slammed him into the dirt, not even stopping to see if his servant was still alive. "But their mistake was giving us access to technology. That has been our saving grace, and I will tell you all why.

"The technology we were given has kept us alive. And from whom did this technology come? The Forerunners. The Prophets squandered it, made it obsolete. But now, it will be what renews us as a people. Millions of our kin have died-against the humans, during the Great Schism, and in the final days of the war. Even now! But if we can harness it, make it our own…" Ferradus stopped, and inhaled deeply. "We can make our own mark on this galaxy. And be dependent upon nobody."

The staff was silent, while Kibtib gave a muffled groan. The Alpha-Chieftain settled his hands on the holo-table, and a devious smile came on his face. "As you may have guessed, I no longer hold to the old ways of thinking. Not those of our ancestors, or those of the San'Shyuum. They have brought us nothing but failure and ruin. I will bring our people to a better future whether they like it or not. Whether _you-"_he gave each adjutant-chieftain a glare-"like it or not. It is an ambitious plan, I agree." His smile only grew wider. "Well, it all begins here. Once we have won the battle for Gethrii…my plan will expand into the galaxy, among the Jiralhanae. I am not the only one who thinks like this. Be aware of that."

The warning was obvious. Ironhead swallowed, and broke eye contact. "Your pardon, Alpha-Chieftain. It was not my intention to question you. But-"

"Do you think this a debate, Ironhead?" Ferradus silenced him once again. He swept his gaze around. "Do you think, Hotblade, that war is just your private arena? Or that you are _so _indispensable, Tenways?" Travalrus was left unscathed, standing stiffly at attention. "It is not any of those things. It is my plan, and you all have parts to play. But _only_ as I say! Am I understood?"

To a man, the staff nodded vehemently. There would be no questions now. They dared not speak. Each had a varying look of anxiety on their faces. Except, of course Travalrus. As ever, stoicism ruled his face.

"You all know your tasks and positions. Return to your camps. In three units, Gorefist will commence his attack. Ensure your forces are ready to mobilise by then. Are there any questions?"

There were not.

**************************************************

"Sarge! Long time no see!"

Kyle lifted his gaze from the stock of his M6G pistol and his face sagged into what might have been called a look of relief. "Well, Corporal Fletcher, it's about damn time. I was thinking I'd have to call your mother and report you missing." The sarcasm masked his pleasure at seeing his second in command, and friend, alive and well.

Len, still pale with fatigue, managed to crack a grin. "Aww, I know you loves me sarge. God knows why else you'd keep me around." He sketched a brief salute and then leaned forward to clasp hands with his CO. "Good to see you too, sir. Lazu made it back fine as well. Where is everyone?"

Kyle had been sitting in the squad's original nest of stones near the outcrop designated "Pillar" by the UNSC forces in the valley. He gestured around the area with the cleaning cloth he'd been using. "Our sentry duty starts in an hour or so. Figured I'd give them some time to relax before we head down near the riverbed and probably get our throats slit."

Len whistled at this cynical response. "And what makes you think we'll all end up like that? We're marines, we don't go down easily." He sat down gingerly, still nursing bruises. "Oorah."

"Oorah, "came the instant reply. "I don't know…just a feeling, I 'spose. We-the host, I mean- haven't seen any Covies since we made landfall. Now, of course, you hear stories spreadin' throughout the army, but that's natural. Soldiers love to gossip as much as they love filling aliens with lead."

Len laughed. "Don't all have your thirst for blood, sarge." He picked a flea out of his russet hair and crushed it.

Kyle scowled at this. "They'd better find it, and so had you. Now, some of the news is good, and some of it bad, but not seeing a single damn Covenant bastard…" He put his gun away and stretched his arms, looking pensive. "Makes it seem like they're up to something. Something we won't expect. And it won't be long, whatever it is. We'll find out first hand, I reckon."

At this foreboding statement, Len shrugged, and rose to his feet. "Might, might not. The Covenant have never been ones to play fair. But they're also bloody predictable. Not to mention they're being led by the brutes. The idea of those apes commanding an army doesn't exactly scream capable leadership."

Still, Kyle looked grim. "They said Gethrii wouldn't be a walk in the park. The battle upstairs isn't going well, by all accounts. And to top it all off, the Elites decided to send their toughest son-of-a-bitch regiment here to help us win the battle. What more evidence do you need? We're in the shit, Len, even if you won't admit it. Or realise it, like most of the grunts in this army." He scratched moodily at one arm.

Well, this was new. Len was accustomed to bouts of fatalism from Xavier, or Horatio. Not from Kyle, rock-steady Kyle who'd led them into hell a dozen times over and always got them out intact. As usual, he deflected his anxiety with humour. "Planning on making a white flag? You might have to requisition it; I doubt there's a scrap of material on this planet that isn't some shade of red." He gave a dramatic sweeping gesture, encompassing the ridge and the entire valley beneath it, now beginning to be bathed in a moonlit glow.

His sergeant scoffed a laugh at this, and shook his head vehemently. "I didn't hitch my ass all the way out here without cryo just so I could give up now. We'll fight. I just don't like being caught unprepared."

Rolling his eyes, Len offered Kyle a hand up. "You don't know what's going to happen, so what's the point in worrying?" The pair left their campsite and set off on one of the many trails, heading towards the unofficial recreation sector. Here, off-duty marines would eat, play cards, toss a ball around and maybe even play some music. As night was falling, and the heat dissipating, spirits in the sector were high. Barring the occasional cantankerous raincloud, like his CO.

"Can't help it, "Kyle said simply. "Every damn fight I get into." He looked toward the Elite bivouac on the other end of their ridge, glimmering purple and white by the glow of their fortifications. "Lazu went to report, I'm assuming?"

Len grimaced. "He wanted to report to you. But some cocky little Elite bureaucrat called Creth Base-Vicky or something caught onto him as soon as he arrived in camp, told him to go get debriefed. The bastard _insisted._" He kicked a loose stone. "Seems like we're not alone in the universe, you know?"

"Oh? How do you figure?"

"Humanity's not the only race that has obstructive little shits like him."

They both laughed, and then fell silent. After a minute, Len broke the silence. "Did Horatio, or-"

"No." Kyle sighed heavily, the sound unnaturally loud in the night air. "Nor Dasa or Gerun. If they're not here by dawn I'm going to have to list them as MIA."

"Fantastic." The unspoken knowledge lay between them-on big campaigns like this, the chances of a squadmate or squadmates returning to their unit after being separated decreased significantly. After a _day._ Both men silently, furiously prayed that their comrades were still out there on this red planet, alive and breathing.

Len thought of how uneager Horatio had been to go on this mission, and his obsession with finding this Captain Cutter and bringing him to justice. He had seemed so damn sure of himself. But now all of that had been left on the periphery. The enemy right now was the Covenant, and they would show no mercy. Although he tried not to think of his friend as a victim in all of this-being separated from the squad, alone for all he knew-Len still wished that he had deployed his pod differently, as ludicrous as the thought was. Then they might be stranded together.

Kyle thought of how ill-fated this mission had been from the beginning, and how the bad luck just kept piling up, like a sack of pigs heads on his family's cabin home back on Eridanus II. Funny, he hadn't thought of his old home in years. Not much use when it was nothing more than a smoking rock still spinning in the darkness of space. Nevertheless, part of him ached for that old, sentimental feeling, and he immediately sobered as he considered it further. It had been some time since he last lost a man under his command (_Jim Setovic, Lance Corporal, blood type O-, Charybdis IX, born 11__th__ of June 2516, died 28__th__ of August 2533) _but the message was clear. If a faint memory of home could move him like this, what would happen if more men died?

Both men pulled themselves from their thoughts, and Kyle clapped a hand on Len's shoulder. "Come on. You can tell me how you and Lazu were dumb enough to mess up a simple drop from orbit."

As Len began a furious tirade of excuses, Kyle's inner sergeant nodded in approval. _Keep them focused, no matter what._

****************************************************

The slot canyon was lit up with the glaring, halogen-like illumination from the massive beacons the Elites had set up. From above, they were stupidly obvious, but the walls of the canyon denied any chances of the light being seen from the ground. Not that it really mattered: the scout teams had been thorough and vigilant. The surrounding mess of canyons, arroyos and gorges were devoid of Covenant, for now. This would give them time to prepare.

Seated with his back resting against the portside wall, Horatio grimaced as the Phantom dropped into a swift descent, and the bitter night wind only intensified. It filled the dropship's crew compartment with a spectre's howl. The other humans aboard, including Master Sergeant Massad, all swore and shivered as it cut through the layers of their fatigues. The Elites, clad in thick armour with heating coils, were spared the worst of it.

However, even the cold couldn't best the frustration that was welling up inside him. Briefly sated during that clusterfuck retaking of Sentinel Base and the subsequent extermination of the insects therein, it had now revived as soon as the sun began to dip towards the western horizon. Radio transmissions, though patchy, had all confirmed the same information: the allied armies had converged on a place called Futility Ridge, and now awaited the clash with their Covenant foes. Their little band of stragglers was, essentially, the only major group that had not yet joined the main force. All other unaccounted companies and operations teams had been written off as MIA, which didn't surprise Horatio in the least-when you were about to go to war, you couldn't waste time and dime looking for missing soldiers. It was something he'd become accustomed to during his time in the Corps. It didn't mean he liked it any better.

On the other hand, he knew that Dasa and Gerun were alive. That was something, at least. Maybe they weren't his favourite aliens (_favourite aliens? _There was an odd phrase for him), but it would be nice to see some familiar faces. Not to mention they were exceptionally good at their jobs, which translated to killing brutes, and lots of them.

Though even they might be outclassed by this gathering. As the Phantom lowered itself onto one of the makeshift airpads, he cast his solemn gaze out over the canyon, some three kilometers in length. The place was awash with Elites and the squid-like Engineers, all hard at work. Repairs were being made to damaged craft, and weapons were replaced and recharged. A clutch of familiar gold and silver domes at the centre of the hubbub marked the official command centre. That was where Horatio would be bound, to hell with what anyone else said. Dasa and Gerun would be there, no question.

The dropship's anti-gravity drive shut off with a murmur, and their pilot 'Gisku emerged from the cockpit, looking haggard. "I need a drink, "he muttered, and elbowed his way through the mass of marines and Elites trying to disembark. Horatio quickly stepped off the craft to avoid being crushed by an errant hoof, and hid his amusement at the pilot's statement._ Get me a double, I think I've earned it. _

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, fall in!" Massad bawled. "The captain has some words for you muttonheads, so do him a solid and listen!" He snapped off a quick salute and fell silent, while the twenty-odd marine complement from the dropship stood at attention. The Elites, not wishing to stand about and listen to human platitudes, quickly vanished into the camp.

Jamison still looked like shit, and probably felt like it too, but his face betrayed none of this as he looked out over his men with an approving smile. "You men and women showed exemplary conduct and courage worthy of the UNSC and its servicemen. I'm proud of all of you, and it's been an honour to fight at your sides. Because of your efforts, we succeeded in containing a threat that might have eventually overrun this whole planet.

"As for the battle to come, I cannot tell you what the future holds. There will be deaths, many of them. War is war and that's a fact. However-" he know began to pace, focusing an intense stare on all present-"I have no doubt that if we all fight as hard as we did at the base, then victory is more than a possibility. It's a goddamn certainty." A few chuckles broke out at that.

Jamison now ceased his pacing and tucked his hands behind his back. "Stay smart, stay strong and work as a unit, and we will prevail. Now, the Elites have been kind enough to set up a bivouac for us not far from here. Ensure that you are all ready to move out when the time comes. Dismissed!" The marines broke up and began to move out towards their temporary encampment. The still-comatose body of Caputo was among them. Horatio's feeling of pride at hearing the captain's speech died instantly upon seeing her. They hadn't saved everyone.

Jamison looked about, and saw him still standing there. "Zerba? Something the matter, marine?"

Horatio nodded crisply, mind back on the present. "Sir, two members of my squad were reported being here. I'd like to accompany you to the command outpost and inquire as to their whereabouts." Usually he wouldn't speak so formally, but it neither did he usually stand privy to a gathering of the higher-ups. It couldn't hurt to be polite.

Jamison pursed his lips at hearing this. "I don't see the harm. Provided you only speak when spoken to. These are high-ranking members of the Xonnel we'll be meeting, understood?"

"Crystal, sir."

'Good." He saw Massad urging the last of the stragglers on, and called out. "Sergeant Massad! Private Zerba here wants to accompany us to the command meeting to find his squadmates. Does that stand alright with you?"

The burly sergeant cracked a grin. "Of course not, he's more than welcome." He quickly strode back to the dropship and pointed inside. "Just so long as you help pull your weight. Or to be more accurate, Vine's." He laughed at this, as if it were the most erudite piece of humour he'd ever heard.

Horatio groaned inwardly as he saw the lanky Ossoona stumble out of the Phantom, who groaned outwardly. They'd given him some painkillers and a bunch of stimulants, but these were temporary measures only and he couldn't stay on his feet much longer. Medical attention was needed, particularly for the cruel gashes the Ether queen had left on his arms. They might become infected.

Vine glared at each of them in turn. "I respect your right to be at this meeting, Captain, as the ranking human officer here. But these two cannot be accorded the same privilege! They are mere foot soldiers, and _insolent _ones at that." He folded his arms stoutly. "They will disrupt the proceedings. There is no doubt."

Massad's face darkened, and he was about to spit out a snarling retort, but Horatio beat him to it, who scoffed at this little speech and folded his arms in mockery of his detractor. "Vine, in the short time I've known you, you've proven yourself to be a complete asshole. Arrogant, self-centred and a tool besides. So tell me, what makes you think you're any better than us?" He threw his hands up in despair. "Hell, your bosses might prefer someone who hasn't got his head up his ass twenty-four seven."

The golden-eyed alien hissed like a cat, and stalked forward. "You dare-"

"Belay that!" Jamison shouted, loud enough for some other Elites to glance over. He swiftly stepped between the two quarrelers. "Private, put a latch on your tongue or you won't be coming at all! Vine, as the ranking human officer, the disposition of my men is within my authority and _mine alone_." He gave the Ossoona a final glower. "This is how it's going to be. So get used to it."

Vine, to his credit, leaned back and adopted an emotionless mask of consensus, mandibles drawn up tight. "Very well. But the consequences are yours to reap." He shoved past the humans, and limped into the crowd, heading for the tents.

'Noted, "Jamison muttered sardonically to himself, and together the sergeant, the private and the captain followed the hot-headed alien, to go discuss how the hell they were going to be of any help to their respective armies before the Covenant slaughtered them.

_I'm getting too old for this shit,_ Horatio thought glumly. _I need some goddamn shore leave. Proper shore leave. Not that little siesta in Russia. Something with a bar and women who have all their hair._

_I'm getting too old for this _khara_, _Massad thought tiredly. _Should put my feet up after this campaign. Work a desk job at HIGHCOM, drill instructor or whatever they offer to old lags like me. It can't be that hard._

I'm getting tired of this shit, "Jamison thought angrily. _Just when you think there might be a glimmering of co-operation, it gets shot down. And it's not us, or them, it's both sides. This can't go on._

Stupid humans, Vine thought venomously.

**Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter-so awesome, it can only be handled in three pieces! Unfortunately, this puts an end to my writing for the next 3 weeks, as I shall be undergoing a pilgrimage to Africa, where the beast known as the computer is much rarer than it is here in Australia. So please, enjoy this little appetiser for the future, and please, please, PLEASE: rate and review! It shall pleaseth me.**

Have a good one, everyone, and wish me luck!


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